


They Call Me Parker

by Tor_Raptor



Series: The Gravesen Chronicles [9]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hospital, Angst, Eating Disorders, Family, Fluff, Foster Care, Friendship, Gen, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Grief/Mourning, Gun Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Kid Avengers, Legos, Mutism, Panic Attacks, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Carol Danvers, Star Wars - Freeform, Teen Avengers, the Platonic Parenting Duo that is Steve Rogers and Carol Danvers, there is some fluff I promise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-26
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-11 23:47:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 39,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29000937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tor_Raptor/pseuds/Tor_Raptor
Summary: Before Gravesen, they called him Peter. He loved his name. It was actually the first thing he said when he finally started talking at age three. The first people to call him Parker were his companions at Gravesen. This is how he got there.
Relationships: Carol Danvers & Peter Parker, May Parker (Spider-Man) & Peter Parker, Ned Leeds & Peter Parker
Series: The Gravesen Chronicles [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1925263
Comments: 198
Kudos: 99





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not going to sugarcoat it. This was HARD to write. Not in the sense that I had to keep multiple timelines straight or adhere to a super strict word count, but in the sense that I had to give life to some truly horrible things, and it pained me to do so. So many of you have called for a Parker prequel, and let this be your warning that it's not pretty. What you saw in Gravesen only hinted at the trauma that came before, and now you will read it in real time and at full force. These first four chapters are pretty jam-packed. Trigger warnings for graphic depictions of violence, graphic depictions of illness, major character death, and borderline suicidal thoughts.
> 
> Most of you have probably grown used to my balance of hard-core angst and fluff. This story has much more of the former, as it is told from the perspective of a person suffering from a mental illness. The stream of consciousness narration, especially towards the middle, reflects a very unhealthy state of mind. The Parker we met in chapter one of Gravesen has had months of healing, but here we will explore the rock-bottom that came before.
> 
> With that said, there will still be fluff, just probably not as much as you're used to coming from me. So that everyone can take a breath after that dire warning I just gave, I'm going to briefly hint at some of my favorite fluff moments you can look forward to in this Gravesen prequel (not in order): fun times with the foster fam, a Gravesen Christmas, some spectacular Carol content, and some truly adorable toddler Peter Parker.
> 
> I apologize for that insanely long author's note, but this story carries more weight than any other both because of the sheer reader demand and the thematic elements. All of that needed to be said. Now that's out of the way, please enjoy "They Call Me Parker."

He'd always loved his name. Peter Parker. It had so many things going for it. It was easy to pronounce, so teachers—even substitutes—never said it wrong. The double P at the beginning made it fun to say, and the –er at the end gave it an almost-rhyme that he thought sounded pretty cool. Plus, there was the extra loving ruffle of his hair when his dad read him Pete the Cat, Peter Rabbit, or Peter Pan books before bed. Sometimes he liked to pretend the stories were about him, that he led all these adventures himself.

Then there was his middle name, Benjamin, after his Uncle Ben. He liked having something special in common with a man he idolized more than any other, except his father. Finally, his last name. Parker tied him to the rest of his family, grouped him in with Mom, Dad, Aunt May, and Uncle Ben. Exactly where he wanted to be.

His name was actually the first thing he ever said, when he finally started speaking at the age of three, much to the relief of his parents and all the specialists they'd taken him to see. Peter wasn't deaf, he didn't fall on the autism spectrum, and he didn't have defective vocal cords. As far as anyone could tell, he just hadn't decided to talk until then. They accepted the cause of the delay as a mystery and just embraced his newfound form of communication.

Now that he'd made the choice to start using his voice, he used it often. More than anything else, he talked about his two favorite things: science and Star Wars. He came home from preschool every day raving about everything they'd learned, especially when it fascinated him—which was basically always. At dinner, he'd explain with wide-eyed excitement to his attentive parents all about the solar system, the five senses, the changing of the seasons, insects, birds, or fish, oftentimes getting so caught up that he neglected to eat until Mommy or Daddy gently reminded him. Then he'd take a bite and get back to talking, usually before he even finished chewing.

He wasn't allowed to talk about Star Wars at dinner anymore, because last time he did his enthusiasm grew big enough that he knocked Mommy's water glass right off the table and shattered it. Peter apologized more times than he could count, nearly in tears with guilt, but she didn't get mad. She only told him that he had to wait until they cleaned up the table before reenacting any light saber duels in the future. He took this lesson to heart and stuck to less grandiose topics at the table.

But after dinner, all bets were off. He and Daddy would chase each other around the living room with plastic light sabers, sometimes dueling each other, sometimes working together to protect the galaxy, and always reciting quotes from the movies with a worthy amount of drama and gravitas. Oftentimes it ended with Peter vanquishing the evil Emperor (played by Daddy) with a well-aimed slice of his light saber. He would collapse to the floor, lamenting his defeat at the hands of such a gallant hero, and as soon as he pretended to take his last breath he'd reach out and pull Peter down with him, tickling him until he was breathless with giggles.

As he grew older, his hunger for knowledge grew with him. Kindergarten frankly bored him, as he could learn the day's material in less than half the time it took most of his peers. His teacher one day took him for special testing in a quiet room in the school's library. These problems genuinely challenged him, and Peter worked furiously to answer them all. He didn't hear anything about the special test until a week later. Mommy sat down with him and asked if he wanted to skip ahead all the way to first grade.

"No," Peter insisted.

"Why not?" she asked. "Your teacher told us that you finish all your work so fast that you have nothing to do most of the day."

"I know. But I don't want to miss anything important! What if kindergarteners get to do something really fun next month and I miss out because I'm already in first grade doing their work?"

"First graders get to do fun things too."

"But Mommy, I want to do all the fun things."

"If you insist," she said with a warm smile. "But how about we go to the library this weekend and pick out some books for you to bring to school with you and read in your free time?"

"Okay!" Peter agreed. He spent the rest of kindergarten racing through his assignments so he could pull the current book out of his desk and crack it open. His teacher looked over his shoulder at his completed work and fondly congratulated him. The other kids, still trudging through their math problems or writing workshop, looked at him with jealousy. Peter smiled at them and offered to help if they got stuck, but they rarely took him up on it. When this happened, he just shrugged and went back to his book. He couldn't help it if he was smart and nice and they were neither.

~0~

"We'll come get you tomorrow morning," Mommy promised, giving Peter one last kiss on the forehead. Daddy bent down to give him a goodbye kiss too, and Peter took the opportunity to tighten the knot on his tie because it had started to come undone.

"Thanks, padawan," he said.

"You're welcome. Bye!" he called as they turned around to go. Daddy's boss was having a dinner party to discuss the plans for the company in the coming year, so he and Mommy dressed up all fancy for the occasion. Peter would be sleeping over at Aunt May and Uncle Ben's because it would run long past his bedtime.

"Don't give your aunt and uncle too much trouble," Daddy reminded him.

"I won't!" Peter promised. He knew Daddy was just kidding. Peter never made trouble. He was a "perfect angel child" as Aunt May told his parents whenever they came to pick him up after staying with them. Aunt May and Uncle Ben babysat him often, whenever Mommy and Daddy attended an event or wanted a date night all by themselves. Nights with May and Ben were some of Peter's favorites—as long as Ben did all the cooking. Aunt May liked to cook, but she wasn't very good at it. One time Peter snuck a bunch of snacks from his kitchen at home into his suitcase to give to Uncle Ben because he wanted him to have options.

Ben had laughed and assured Peter that he'd grown used to May's cooking, but thanked him all the same. They'd shared the snacks between all three of them while playing board games that night. "What do you want to do tonight, Peter?" Uncle Ben asked him. Peter made straight for the closet where he knew they kept the games and procured the deck of cards. Last time he stayed over, they taught him the rules of poker, but they'd first made him promise not to tell his parents. Peter hadn't breathed a word of it, as much as he'd wanted to. Keeping his mouth shut when he was excited about something was one of the most difficult things ever.

"Think you can beat me this time?" Uncle Ben asked with a quirk of his eyebrow.

"I know I can," Peter retorted with a grin. "But only if I can have the special drink."

"The _what_?" Aunt May interjected. As Ben headed toward the kitchen, she stood in the doorway with her hands on her hips to block him.

"Relax, it's just apple juice in a tumbler," Uncle Ben assured her.

"It makes the game feel more authentic," Peter stated matter-of-factly. Aunt May rolled her eyes, but she let Ben pass. He came back with Peter's drink, and one for himself that smelled very different. They used coins from Ben's spare change jar as poker chips, but after the game they put it all back in the jar no matter who won. By the time Peter finished his drink, Aunt May was winning handedly after a full house and a flush in back-to-back hands. A few hands later, Peter yawned for the third time in as many minutes.

"Alright, I think we should call it a night," Uncle Ben announced. "Neither of us stands a chance at taking this game back from your aunt."

"Okay," Peter agreed. He got changed into his pajamas and brushed his teeth with the red and blue toothbrush that he kept at Aunt May and Uncle Ben's place for when he stayed over. His toothbrush at home was much plainer. When he emerged from the bathroom to ask Uncle Ben to tuck him in, he found the man on the phone with a stunned expression on his face while May watched him frightfully.

"What's wrong?" he asked, tugging on his aunt's hand to get her attention. She startled, almost as if she forgot her nephew was even here, and looked at him solemnly. She didn't say anything until Uncle Ben hung up the phone. He shook his head slowly and deliberately and then he did something that completely baffled Peter—he let out a shaking sob. Peter had never been so scared in his life. "What's going on?" he asked again, desperate for answers. As soon as he heard this question, Uncle Ben composed himself. He and May guided Peter into the living room and sat down with him on the sofa.

"Peter," Uncle Ben began slowly, as if he'd forgotten how to speak. "There was a car accident while your parents were driving to dinner. They—they didn't survive."

"They died?" All the words in Ben's statement made sense, but not in that order. Peter's parents were coming back in the morning to pick him up and take him home. They couldn't do that if they were dead.

"Yes, sweetheart," Aunt May said. "I'm so sorry." She wrapped her arms around him and squeezed tighter than he'd ever felt before. Peter squeezed back, not knowing what else to do in the wake of this news. Uncle Ben leaned in and wrapped them both up. The three of them fell asleep like that on the sofa, too weighed down to even think about moving.

~0~

They went back to Peter's apartment where he'd spent his entire life to gather up all his parent's things and clean it out. It felt so strange to set foot in there feeling like a visitor instead of a permanent resident. Peter didn't even believe in the word permanent anymore. While Aunt May and Uncle Ben systematically went through things, Peter dove right for Daddy's closet. He found and old sweatshirt of his and put it on, letting its massive size envelope him completely. Rolling up the sleeves so he could actually use his hands, he walked over to the dresser and opened Mommy's jewelry box to find the locket she wore most days. It contained a picture of the three of them smiling, and joyful, and _together_. Without thinking, Peter slipped it around his neck and curled up on their big bed in the same spot he used to whenever he had a bad dream and couldn't fall asleep in his own bed. However, instead of the two warm bodies of his parents on either side of him, Peter felt nothing but empty space.

Aunt May and Uncle Ben found him there almost an hour later. "You can keep these, if you want," Ben said, indicating the locket and sweatshirt. Peter wrapped his hand around the charm containing their picture and nodded. Aunt May helped him to pack up everything from his bedroom and move it into their guest room where he stayed last night—now Peter's bedroom. He'd never asked directly, but Aunt May and Uncle Ben made it obvious from the beginning that they would be assuming the role of his primary caretakers and legal guardians. Peter didn't need to see any fancy documents to know they'd take care of him as long as he needed them to.

He didn't speak for two and a half weeks. Mommy and Daddy weren't there to listen, so he didn't see much point. Peter woke up in the middle of the night from a dream and wandered into the living room, where he found Uncle Ben wide awake in front of the TV. He instantly recognized the movie playing: the Empire Strikes Back. "Why are you watching this?" he asked, his first words since the news.

"I know how much you and your dad love Star Wars, so I thought I'd catch up," he explained. Peter approached and gently wiped away the tear tracks on his uncle's face. "You're just like Luke Skywalker now, being raised by your aunt and uncle."

"Yeah, I guess so," Peter sighed. Of all the things to have in common with his hero, he didn't want it to be that.

~0~

By the time Peter started middle school, he'd been living with his aunt and uncle for five years. Most people that didn't know them well just assumed they were his parents, and at some point May and Ben stopped correcting them. However, with people they ended up getting to know better over time, it always resulted in that conversation eventually. He hated how profusely they always apologized for assuming Peter was May and Ben's son when they found out he wasn't. It was a perfectly reasonable assumption given their living situation. Occasionally, Peter almost slipped up and called May "Mom" or Ben "Dad," but after the one time he said it out loud and Ben nearly started crying he was extra careful to catch himself. Peter's dad had been Ben's little brother, and the last thing Ben wanted was to replace him in the eyes of his son.

Peter wore his mother's locket every day; the charm was plain and unadorned enough not to be too dressy, and it had enough room for four little photos. Currently, it housed one of him and his parents from when he was a toddler, one of him, May, and Ben, and a wedding photo featuring all four of his guardians. The fourth slot he left empty, for now. He also still had his dad's sweatshirt, though he only wore it on bad days. Now, those were few and far between. Peter's memory of his parents had grown hazy, though thanks to pictures their faces were still clear in his mind. He loved May and Ben with the same ferocity, although he definitely missed his mom's cooking. Peter might not remember all that much about them, but he remembered their food being way better than the dishes May created. Uncle Ben liked to joke with him that they'd have better odds fishing through the dumpster behind the apartment building. Sometimes, that's exactly where their dinner ended up, followed swiftly by a pizza box or two. At least May was a good sport about it, laughing at her own failures just as much as Peter and Ben did.

Middle school was the best thing to happen to Peter since fifth grade, which was the best thing since fourth grade, et cetera. Peter was always eager to learn bigger and better things, and now they offered classes of varying difficulty levels to accommodate different students. He'd tested into the highest level of everything without really trying and was elated to finally learn at a pace closer to his natural. Math and science were by far his favorite subjects, and just as he'd been doing since he was a little kid, he talked all about whatever they did that day at the dinner table. Only now the topics extended to things like algebra, history, and basic chemistry and biology.

Most Friday nights however, he raved about whatever movie they'd be watching later. More often than not, it was a rewatch of any and all Star Wars material, but May managed to sneak in a few of her own favorites and Ben occasionally convinced Peter to venture into other genres. He thoroughly enjoyed all the Indiana Jones, Back to the Future, and even Star Trek, but of course nothing could ever replace his favorite. His memories of light saber fights with his dad were some of the most vivid he retained from his childhood.


	2. Lucky Charms

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You remember the Code Silver chapter of Gravesen? This is where we finally learn why that went down the way it did. Major trigger warning for graphic depictions of violence.

"I'm going to the store, any last minute requests?" Uncle Ben asked, brandishing the grocery list that had been stuck on the fridge for the past week.

"Lucky Charms!" Peter called. May always vetoed the purchase of sugary cereals, but Peter tried every time anyway.

"I'll tell you what, if you come with me, I'll buy you Lucky Charms," Ben proposed.

"Really?"

"It'll be our little secret."

Peter paused to consider this offer. Was a boring trip to the grocery store really worth a box of cereal that he knew was bad for him yet still loved anyway? Absolutely. Peter leapt off the couch and followed Uncle Ben out the door. May had dragged him shopping with her occasionally when he was too young to stay home alone, but back then he'd found errands exciting. Only the promise of Lucky Charms prevented him from audibly groaning when they walked through the front doors.

Ben grabbed a cart and started in back corner, handing the list and a pen off to Peter. "You're in charge of making sure I don't forget anything, okay? You know how Aunt May gets when I forget things."

"Basil would not have saved that pasta," Peter remarked.

"Nothing would have saved that pasta, Pete," Ben replied with a chuckle. Peter shivered remembering the texture of rubbery noodles and the musk of burnt sauce that had lingered in the apartment for days. They made their way through half the list, and Ben had a hell of a time finding an avocado that wasn't either completely rotted to the core or so hard it could probably be used as a weapon. The cereal aisle sat at about the halfway point of the store, and Peter bounced ahead of the cart excitedly when they finally got there. He understood why May was so against sugary cereals, looking at some of the boxes that contained literal chocolate chip cookies or the lovechild of Cheerios and Skittles, but Lucky Charms were basically just fun-shaped Cheerios with a few tiny marshmallows added in, so it couldn't be that bad.

Peter scanned the aisle for the leprechaun, finding it sandwiched between Cap'n Crunch and Tony the Tiger, and strode up to the box eagerly. The second his fingertips touched the surface, he heard it. Living in such a big city, Peter had heard this sound before, but not often and only from a distance. Hearing it inside, where the sound could echo around the enclosed space, instilled in Peter a twisted emotion he didn't think he'd ever felt before.

"What was that?" he asked, turning to Uncle Ben. Last time he glanced over, Ben had been halfway down the aisle from him looking for the one cereal May ate exclusively, but all of a sudden he was right there in front of him and dragging him forwards. Just as Peter considered repeating his question, the sound rang out again, and there was absolutely no mistaking it this time. Gunshots. There was no mistaking it this time because as soon as they emerged from the end of the aisle, they saw them. Two people stood near the entrance to the store, both armed. Peter and Ben ducked back into the cereal aisle before either gunman could set his sights on them.

"What do we do?" Peter questioned desperately.

"Shhh," Ben prompted. Someone nearby screamed, and the sound of running footsteps followed it. Another shot rang out and the scream cut off abruptly, followed by the tumbling of boxes to the floor. Peter bit his lip to stifle a whimper, knowing that if he screamed the men would find them that much easier. Ben walked with one arm wrapped protectively around Peter, pushing him into a low crouch. Just as they reached the end of the aisle, Peter heard footsteps behind them and one of the men appeared poised to shoot at the other end of the aisle.

"Go!" Ben shouted, shoving Peter in front of him as they ran towards the refrigerated section. Not one second after they cleared the space at the end of the cereal aisle, Peter heard another shot. If they'd been any slower, they would've gotten hit. Hand wrapped tightly in Ben's, Peter raced to keep pace with him. Just ahead of them, the door to the milk fridge had been left open. He saw the white liquid spurt from one of the cartons and leak onto the floor before he even registered that another shot had been fired. Skidding on the tile floor, they stopped before they entered the line of fire and turned back, dashing down the baking aisle.

The entire store now echoed with screams and pounding footsteps, broken occasionally by gunshots and the thumping of cans, boxes, and containers hitting the floor. Peter wanted to wrap his arms around Uncle Ben, but he knew he'd restrict both of their mobility by doing so. "Stay here," Uncle Ben prompted. Peter kept his feet rooted to the floor right in front of the brownie and cake mixes while Ben tiptoed to the end of the aisle to scout out a potential exit route. Another shot, and he ducked back behind the shelves, accidentally knocking over a bag of powdered sugar. It didn't split open, but it made a satisfying thump as it hit the floor. Ben waved his arms frantically at Peter, ushering him to run in the other direction, so he did. He took off towards the back of the store with Ben hot on his trail. Running perpendicular to the aisles, he couldn't help but glance down some of them. What he saw nearly made him stop to vomit.

Cans and boxes and _people_ littered the floor, some with holes in them. Peter couldn't tell where the leaking tomato soup ended and the blood began. He and Ben turned a corner just in time to see a man go down, toppling into a display of sodas and knocking several bottles to the floor where they sat all shaken up. Another bullet punctured one of the bottles and Coke bubbled up like a baking soda volcano. Ben yanked Peter backwards by the shirt and they took off in the other direction.

He swore he could hear hostile footfalls on their tail, but every time Peter glanced over his shoulder he saw endless destruction and terror, but no gunmen. They stopped for a breath, though every instinct in Peter's head shrieked at him to keep running and not stop until he reached safety—though that seemed like a completely alien concept at the moment. Peter didn't remember what safety felt like. Uncle Ben gripped him by the shoulders and locked eyes with him. When Peter was little, a look like that from his uncle could soothe any fear, great or small. This time, however, it magnified his terror one thousand fold.

Because this time, instead of reassurance, Ben offered him nothing except a reflection of his own terror.

Another shot rang out, followed by the distinct sound of cans tumbling off a shelf and a body hitting the floor. Hurried footsteps dashed across the store, and the man came to a stop at the other end of the aisle where Peter and Ben stood. They both turned to look just as the man raised his arm. Ben adjusted his grip and half shoved, half hurled Peter out of the way. Peter slid a few feet across the tile floor, coming to a stop as the man fired his next shots. He propped himself up on his elbows just in time for the perfect view of Ben stumbling backwards into a display of meats and cheeses, the front of his shirt dripping with blood from two bullet holes.

"BEN!" The guttural scream tore itself from Peter's throat and he ran for his uncle with no regard for the gunman still stationed at the other end of the aisle.

"No," Ben choked out. "Peter, go. Run!" The last word was accompanied by a trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth. Peter disobeyed his uncle for the first time in his life. He fell to his knees and wrapped Ben's hand in his own. If the man decided to shoot him too, Peter honestly wouldn't care. He'd do anything to _end this_.

In the movies when someone important died, they always had famous last words encouraging the hero to continue on without them or providing advice that would be the key to defeating the bad guy later on. Peter wanted Ben to give him this; he needed one last interaction with the man who had raised him like his own son. He got nothing but ragged, slowing breaths and a vacant stare.

"Uncle Ben?" Peter moved his head back and forth to check if Ben was still tracking him with his eyes, but they remained fixed and unseeing. He tightened his hold on Ben's hand as if afraid he would float away. If any more shots went off, Peter didn't hear them. His head filled with white noise—not the peaceful kind, but the harsh, scratchy kind that sounded from a broken radio. When the police sirens approached, Peter didn't hear them. Nor did he see the flashing lights. He could see nothing but the bloodstains on Ben's shirt. Somehow, he'd gotten blood on his own hands and clothes too, though he couldn't remember how they it got there.

"Kid?" the officer's voice broke through and Peter looked up at him with pleading eyes. He reached down to help Peter to his feet, but Peter refused to relinquish his hold on Ben. "It's okay," the man encouraged. "We'll take care of you." Peter gave his uncle's hand one last squeeze and accepted the officer's assistance. On the way out, he saw countless boxes, bags, and cans littering the floor, some sitting in puddles of blood or crushed by the weight of the bodies that had rested on top of them. Peter wondered how long it would take to clean this place up, to scrub away all the evidence of this tragedy. He wished he could cleanse his mind of these memories as easily as they could get blood off of tile.

When he started shaking, Peter didn't know, but by the time the officer led him back through the front doors he could barely walk straight. The street outside was crowded with police cars, ambulances, and news vans, people milling everywhere. Peter zoned out, keeping his eyes on the asphalt below so he wouldn't accidentally catch a glimpse of another body being carted away on a stretcher. If he looked, he knew he'd want to check which was Ben. Eventually, he found himself sitting in the back of an ambulance, feet dangling, a blanket draped across his still-trembling shoulders. People asked him questions and he thought he nodded along properly, though he couldn't be sure. Everything he saw and heard took on a hazy quality, like he needed glasses and hearing aids but had neither. But his senses sharpened back into reality when he heard a familiar voice.

"Peter!"

"Aunt May?" He finally looked up from the ground and saw his aunt working her way through the crowd to get to him. She broke into a run as soon as there was room and Peter leapt from his seat to meet her. They practically crashed into each other, hugging so tight that Peter couldn't breathe, but he didn't even care. Now he remembered what safety felt like.

~0~

It took Peter five days to stop shaking. Every footstep, every creak of a door made the hairs on the back of his neck stand erect and his breathing pick up. He trembled throughout the entirety of the funeral, a combination of grief and terror strumming up and down his nervous system. May cried at least two or three times a day, and she slept on the sofa now, unable to bear lying down next to an empty half of the bed.

Peter still slept in his own room—slept being a relative term. Every time he nodded off, he dreamed of the grocery store and woke up with a scream in his throat which he just barely managed to staunch before he risked waking May. Each day excavated new reminders of the man they'd lost. Ben's coffee mug left out on the kitchen counter. A week of Ben's clothes in the dirty laundry pile. Ben's shoes by the front door, his coats in the closet, his absence bigger than all of those things conglomerated together.

"Is this ever going to get easier?" Peter asked timidly as he and May sat on the sofa watching a blank TV screen. Neither of them could bear to turn it on because Ben had always insisted on hogging the remote. She scooted over so they sat side by side and wrapped an arm around him, hugging him into her side.

"Yes, baby. I know it doesn't seem like it, but yes," she assured.

"How long did it take before it got easier for you and Ben after my parents died?" Peter didn't understand how fate could be so cruel to his wonderful aunt, forcing her to endure the loss of her brother and sister-in-law and then her husband within a decade.

"A long, long time. It's not something that happens all at once. You don't wake up one day and suddenly feel twenty pounds lighter. But that hole in your heart gradually heals up until the edges of it aren't so raw anymore."

"The hole doesn't close up?"

"No. The only thing that can fit in the hole is the person you've lost, so it will stay forever. And at first it really, really hurts. But over time it becomes a hole like your nostril, one that's always been there and doesn't bother you normally, but will still hurt if you hit it just right."

"Did you just compare grief to a nostril?" Peter questioned.

"Yeah. It's a little something I picked up from a nurse friend of mine who used to be a grief counselor. It's pretty ridiculous, isn't it?"

"Yes," Peter giggled. "But I like it."

May looked at him with wonder in her eyes, maybe because that was the first time he'd laughed since it happened. "I'm glad you like it," she said.

"How would a nose piercing fit into this analogy?" he asked. Now it was May's turn to burst out laughing.

~0~

Peter's stomach growled for the first time since Ben died. He'd been too swept up in his grief to feel hungry up until now, when the raging sorrow had finally quieted to a dull emptiness. Maybe he ate at the funeral, though he genuinely didn't remember. He stepped into the kitchen on bare feet in search of a snack. May hadn't gone back to work yet, but she was out on a walk, leaving Peter alone in the apartment. She'd promised to be back within an hour.

He opened the fridge and froze. The memory hit him with the force of a speeding train, all five of his senses exploding with the same sensations that had assaulted him on that fateful day. The cold from the open door seeped into his bones. His gaze fell on the gallon of milk and he watched it weep its contents everywhere after the bullet struck it and shredded the plastic. Screams echoed in the vast space, punctuated by gunshots. The smell of gunpowder and blood rose in the air like a heavy fog.

Peter slammed the door of the fridge hard enough to rattle its contents, but the damage was already done. His breathing spiraled out of control and he sank to the ground, back against the fridge, to stave off the dizziness. Logically he knew that he hadn't been transported back to the grocery store as if by magic, but that did nothing to stop the balloon of fear swelling up inside him as if his every frantic breath inflated it.

He squeezed his hands over his ears to block out the sounds, but they were coming from inside his head so he could do nothing to stop them. Holding his breath to stop from inhaling the phantom scent failed because a frantic exhale slipped from his lips and kicked him back into hyperventilation no matter how hard he tried to restrain it. Numbness spread to his hands like they'd fallen asleep, and then the sensation swallowed his face too. The tears racing down his cheeks didn't even feel wet, they just tingled.

He didn't know what to do. When this happened in the store, the feeling had gone away when the police arrived and the shots stopped ringing. But there was no real danger now, so what could save him from succumbing to fatal panic? _Nothing_.

What would May do when she got back and found him like this? What if she made him explain what caused it? How could he tell her that something so _stupid_ had reduced him to a blubbering mess? How could he make her worry about this when she'd just lost her husband? Peter steeled himself and unclamped his hands from the sides of his head, his breaths still forcefully and rapidly ripping themselves in and out of his chest.

He tried to stand up, but his vision washed out and he grew dizzy, so he resigned himself to crawling into his room. Crawling on numb hands wasn't easy, but he made it and slammed the door behind him. His pillow lay on the floor where it had fallen out of bed last night, so he reached for it and hugged it tightly to his chest. The presence of the physical weight helped him force his breaths to become more slow and controlled. He lost track of the minutes, but by the time May announced her return he was mostly back to normal, just exhausted and shaky.

"Peter?" May called. "Where are you?"

"In my room," he answered, hoping his voice sounded normal enough not to raise suspicion. The knock on his door startled him enough to make his breath hitch.

"Can I come in?"

"Uh…yeah." Peter scrambled to get off the floor and managed to flop down onto his bed just as she opened the door. He flashed a (hopefully) reassuring smile, simultaneously inventing a lie for what he'd spent the last hour doing.

"What'cha been up to?" Her casual tone indicated she didn't suspect anything was wrong. Peter stifled a sigh of relief.

"Not much. Had a snack, then just came in here."

"Sounds exciting."

"Yeah, for sure. Did you have a nice walk?" he asked. Anything to change the subject.

"Yeah. A walk in the city feels a lot different when you don't have a destination in mind."

"Cool."

"I know you said you just ate, but I wanna start thinking about what to make for dinner. Any suggestions?"

"Spaghetti?" It was the first thing to pop into his head. May nodded and ducked back out of his room, closing the door behind her. Peter took a deep, trembling breath to steady himself after that close call. Under no circumstances would he let Aunt May know what had occurred today. She had enough on her plate without worrying about her nephew freaking out over their refrigerator. He needed to prevent another incident like this from ever happening, because he couldn't guarantee that she wouldn't witness it next time. Any of the store-bought food in the house might set him off, the familiar packaging reminding him of that horrible day. He didn't know for sure, and he certainly didn't want to test it out. If he could just avoid encountering any of it, everything would be fine. So that's what he did.

~0~

Just two weeks after Ben, May returned to work and Peter returned to school. Getting back to their normal routines was supposed to help them move on. Because her wages alone now needed to support the both of them, she took on a more intense shift schedule. This meant she was already gone when Peter woke up on weekday mornings and didn't get back until six in the evening. Yes, it was terribly lonely, but it allowed him to keep his secret without much effort. She wasn't here to notice that he didn't eat breakfast before school or pack lunch that she'd entrusted him to make for himself since she didn't have time. Peter couldn't even look at the fridge or pantry without his breath catching in his throat—no way was he trying to open either ever again.

The hunger bothered him, of course, but it was nothing compared to the agonizing terror of dredging up that memory. He learned pretty quickly that his stomach started to protest around ten in the morning most days, but after half an hour or so it seemed to recognize that it wasn't getting fed anytime soon and quieted down. If it got particularly bad, he drank from his Stormtrooper water bottle that he filled in the sink every morning, and that always eased the discomfort to some degree. No one at school questioned why he didn't eat lunch because he spent that time holed up in the library studying instead of in the cafeteria. The school librarian was old enough and blind enough that she didn't even know he was there as long as he stayed quiet.

During the week, he ate only what May cooked for dinner at night. He was young enough that she didn't expect him to help prepare food, so he avoided the kitchen until she was almost done, then he set the table. This way he wasn't around while she gathered ingredients, opening cabinets and revealing cans or boxes that looked _just like the ones people had collapsed against_.

If May suspected anything, she didn't let on. She probably thought he ate more at dinner than he used to because he'd hit a growth spurt or something.

Weekends were a little better. Saturday and Sunday mornings he woke up to homemade chocolate milk. May had always made the best chocolate milk. She somehow knew the perfect ratio of milk and Hershey syrup. She left in on the table in his Chewbacca mug with the stirring spoon still in it—he always drank with the spoon still in the cup. She had her coffee while he sipped his milk and they talked about their week. It quickly became Peter's favorite time, both because of the quality time spent with Aunt May and because he knew the calorific drink would make the gnawing hunger leave him alone for longer.


	3. Unburnt Meatloaf

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so glad this site has a way to make stories into a series. I also post on another site where that's not possible, and I've had so many people review and ask about how things are going to happen when Peter becomes Spider-Man. *facepalm*
> 
> For whatever reason, this is the first prequel where I've had a bunch of new people hop on board without realizing just how big this boat is. I think that's a testament to the size of the Peter Parker fandom more than anything.

A year without Ben passed in the blink of an eye while also somehow lasting a century. May was always exhausted from a combination of overwork and grief, but without Ben to help support them she couldn't afford to take more time off. It was an unfortunate fact of life that the world waited for no one—and neither did the bills. Peter had never felt more isolated in his entire life, the only person who shared his life experience being his aunt who he only really got to see evenings and weekends. After the shooting, kids at school wouldn't talk to him, as if they were afraid of shattering him like a porcelain doll. Not that he'd had any friends beforehand. Peter spent too much time hyperfocused on classwork to be open to friendly conversation with his peers. Besides, most of them were so stupid that Peter didn't want to talk to them anyway.

Though it was hard, he reminded himself every day of things he could still be grateful for. May always topped that list. She did everything in her power to support Peter despite dealing with the loss of her husband, and he could always count on her to be there in a time of need. She also bought him his own phone not long after the shooting, more out of concern for Peter's safety than for his personal enjoyment, but he was thankful for it nonetheless. A few times, he almost considered telling her about his inability to even look at packaged food, but then he thought about the tons of weight already on her slim but strong shoulders and decided he needed to bear some of it himself. When it was just the two of them, they both needed to do their part to help the other out. Peter was old enough that he couldn't just leech off his guardian like a parasite; it was his responsibility to keep himself afloat as much as possible.

Peter never complained about her food anymore. Primarily because by the time dinner rolled around he was so hungry he could eat anything without even really tasting it, but also because Ben wasn't here to laugh with him. He also knew that May felt bad she couldn't provide anything better and he didn't want to upset her. Still, when May actually managed to make a meatloaf without running the risk of setting off the smoke detectors, Peter couldn't help but comment, "You didn't burn it this time."

"Nope," she affirmed. "I was extra careful this time not to let it cook too long."

They dug in, enjoying the freedom from having to pick through the piece in search of non-charred bits. Peter learned that a pink center tasted infinitely better than a black outside. "You should always make it like this," he remarked after swallowing his last bite.

"I'll certainly try."

Peter went to bed that night dreaming of unburnt food. He woke up early the next morning with the worst stomachache of his life and knew within five seconds of opening his eyes that he needed to throw up. Fortunately, he made it to the bathroom on time. Sometimes it paid to live in a small New York apartment. When the heaving finally ceased, he sat against the wall of the bathroom and tried to catch his breath. His stomach still hurt, but more of an ache than the urgent cramping of before. Hopefully, this one bout had gotten everything out of his system that needed to come out.

Just in case, he stayed in the bathroom for ten more minutes before emerging. He wandered into the kitchen and found Aunt May digging through the medicine cabinet. "Everything okay?" he asked her.

"Yeah. Just a bit of a stomachache," she replied. She found the box she was looking for and swallowed the pill with a sip of water.

"Me too," Peter admitted sheepishly. "But I think the worst of it is over."

"Did you get sick?" she asked, turning around to face him with her eyes suddenly full of concern.

"Yeah."

"How do you feel now?" She placed the back of her hand on his forehead to gauge his temperature.

"Better. But still not great."

"That's good. I'm thinking since we're both under the weather, it probably came from something we ate."

"You think so? The one time your food is actually enjoyable, it makes us sick."

"I guess I'd better keep burning everything, shouldn't I?"

"I guess so," Peter sighed. He stayed home from school that day, still nursing an aching stomach, but May dragged herself to work at the usual time and promised she'd call to check on him when she got a chance. Peter knew with her schedule, that was bound to be never, but he just smiled and wished her a good day. He spent the day on the sofa watching Star Wars, as he usually did on sick days. The occasional cramps came and went, but generally he felt better by the end of the day. He hoped that a good night's sleep would flush whatever-it-was out of his system for good.

It did, seemingly. Peter awoke feeling ninety percent normal, but he could hear the sound of someone vomiting in the bathroom and knew that May must've not been so lucky. He knocked on the door during a break between heaves and asked, "You okay?"

"Yeah," she called back. Peter didn't entirely believe her, because the one-word sentence was nearly cut off entirely by another retch.

"Can I get you anything?"

"A ginger ale?" she asked hesitantly. "I think there's some in the fridge."

"Okay." Peter wandered into the kitchen with his chest slowly freezing to ice. Why had he offered to fetch something from the fridge when he couldn't even open it without freaking out? He couldn't exactly lie to May and say they didn't have any when he didn't even check. Plus, she'd just look herself eventually and see that they did have it. Peter stared at the door, his hand hovering halfway to the handle. He took a deep breath and forced himself to remember that the shooting was over a year ago. There was nothing to be afraid of. It was just a ginger ale in his own fridge in his own home for his Aunt May. "You can do this," he whispered to himself.

He opened the door and instantaneously closed his eyes without even thinking about it and couldn't get them to open again. Deciding to just go with it, he started fumbling blindly at the spot on the door where he knew they kept sodas and things. His hand brushed against something that was probably ketchup or mayonnaise, so he lowered it a shelf and wrapped his fingers around what felt like a soda can. He placed the bottle on the counter and closed the fridge. Ever so slowly, he ratcheted his eyes open to look at what he'd snagged.

It was a Coke.

He closed his eyes again and grabbed it, putting it back in the empty slot in the fridge and fumbling again to find a ginger ale. Peter decided to go for the bottle one slot closer to him in the door and repeated the same process. This time, he succeeded. He held the bottle behind his back and returned to the bathroom to give it to May.

"Thanks," she muttered. She opened the lid and took a cautious sip. Peter noticed she looked paler than usual.

"You're not going to work today too, are you?"

"No. I called in sick."

"Good. You look like you could use some rest."

May spent the day on the sofa with her own sick day movie choices: Pretty Woman and Ferris Bueller's Day Off. Peter left a trash can close by, but fortunately she didn't need to use it. Neither of them felt quite well enough to eat dinner, and May certainly wasn't up for making anything, so they went to bed that night with hopes that things would improve by morning.

For Peter, they did.

May took another day off, and Peter grew worried. It had been three days since the dinner that supposedly made them sick. Why had Peter recovered so quickly when May was still so far under the weather? It didn't make any sense. He went to school that day and returned to find a pot of plain broth on the stove and May on the couch with her arms wrapped around her stomach in discomfort.

"How are you?" he asked cautiously, as if he couldn't tell by looking.

"Not great," she said. "If this goes on much longer, I might need IV fluids."

Peter trusted her on this fully; she was a nurse, after all, but he didn't want it to be true. Now that it was just the two of them, he hated seeing May sick even more. It didn't happen often. The only things that ever brought her down were the occasional migraine or severe head cold, but Ben had always been here to prepare her herbal tea and do all the things that a caregiver was supposed to do for their ailing spouse. Peter wasn't good for much when it came to caregiving. He was twelve years old and he barely managed fetching a ginger ale from the fridge. Forlornly, he wondered if being sick also made May miss Ben even more.

~0~

The next day was a Saturday, so Peter woke up later than usual. He first thought about May, hoping another day of rest had helped her turn the tables against this illness. Peter wandered through the apartment, but he didn't find her. She must've still been in bed. He peeked his head through the master bedroom door and found her curled up in the fetal position looking no better than yesterday, possibly even worse.

"Aunt May," he called quietly, not wanting to wake her if she was sleeping.

"'S that you Peter?" she asked blearily.

"Yeah. How are you feeling?"

"Been better."

"Do you need to go to the hospital?"

She hesitated, and Peter's heart rose into this throat. Then she sighed, "Probably." He nodded, fighting the tears creeping into the back of his eyes, and stepped back out of the room. His mind instantly filled with worst-case scenarios. May being sicker than they thought and having to stay overnight or even longer. Doctors finding some other underlying illness that required expensive treatment that bankrupted them. This mystery illness being severe enough to kill her. Peter knew that was ridiculous, that people went to the hospital for hydration when they contracted stomach bugs all the time and it was no big deal, but given that he'd lost three parental figures in his short lifetime, he was inclined to fear the worst.

He convinced May to get a taxi instead of attempting to drive to the hospital. In her state, he thought she might cause an accident. Car accidents were another thing Peter was paranoid about given his history. They sat in the waiting room for nearly an hour before May was seen, and in that time she took no fewer than four bathroom breaks. Peter did nothing but wish there was more he could do. When they eventually examined her, they found her blood pressure had dropped considerably, so they ran bloodwork and urinalysis before hooking her up to IV fluids to combat the dehydration and try to bring her blood pressure back up.

May, as a nurse, understood everything and calmly followed all their instructions. Peter was a nervous wreck in the chair next to the bed, bouncing his knee or drumming his fingers on the armrest. "Peter, it's alright," May assured him. "It's probably just a persistent norovirus."

"What if it's not?"

"Then they'll figure it out and get it fixed," she answered confidently. "It's their job."

Peter trusted her. He had no other choice. But as the hours passed, his faith in May started to dwindle. Her eyes grew glassy and her consciousness seemed to fade. She started not quite registering when Peter spoke to her. What they'd initially thought would be a few hour stay for IV fluids turned into something much more complex. Peter wished more than ever that Uncle Ben was still here. He could've wrapped a comforting arm around Peter's shoulders as they sat side by side in these uncomfortable chairs, instead of Peter sitting alone and wringing his hands to keep them from shaking.

One of the nurses offered him a snack and he nearly started crying at the prospect. He suspected that if he attempted to eat it would result in either another episode of panic or another bout of vomiting, so he refused with as much composure as he could muster. They ran more tests on May and discovered the cause of the illness: bacteria called E. coli O157:H7. At this point, May was coherent enough to hold a conversation with the doctors and she explained about the meatloaf and Peter's milder illness.

The doctors responded with an explanation of their own, about the risks of something called hemolytic uremic syndrome that sometimes resulted from this particular infection. The bacteria could produce a toxin that destroyed blood cells, leading to catastrophic organ failure. Peter wished he wasn't in the room for that conversation. The familiar feeling of dread rose in his stomach, the same one that had appeared during the grocery store shooting. He thought the universe was finally through with torturing him, that it had finally moved on to some other poor soul. But as it turned out the universe had saved the greatest horror show for last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The course of this chapter and the next are based on the novel Toxin by Dr. Robin Cook. Yes, this is a real thing that can happen. If you ever need extra motivation to convert to vegetarianism for whatever reason, I suggest reading that book. Also, warning for graphic depictions of illness for the next chapter.


	4. Toxin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for graphic depictions of illness. But I promise this is the last of the super heavy stuff.

May's temperature skyrocketed to one hundred four degrees mere minutes after she complained of the pain in her stomach increasing to excruciating. She quivered from a combination of fever and anguish, while Peter quivered from a combination of despair and terror. The skin around her collarbones gained bright red spots indicating burst blood vessels beneath the skin. It turned out her intestines had perforated and she was nearly in shock, so they immediately rushed her off to an OR to fix it. She barely had the strength to whisper goodbye to Peter before they carted her off, and he couldn't even muster the words to say it back or even wave. He just stared and tried to stave off the tears.

While May was in surgery, one of the nurses took Peter for a walk. She asked him about school, what he liked to do, any basic conversation topics to distract him from everything going on. Peter did his best to keep up his end, but any enthusiasm he ever had for talking about things had evaporated. The nurse showed him to a room that must've been for the sick kids here in the hospital; toys littered the floor and art supplies littered the tables. She led him over to a locked drawer in the corner.

"This is our prize box," she explained.

"Why do you keep it locked?" Peter questioned.

"To keep the prize fairies out."

He stared at her with a disbelieving look on his face.

"You're old enough for me to tell you the truth," she admitted. "It's for dramatic effect, for the little ones. It seems more special when you need a special key to open it."

Peter almost laughed. She slid the key into the lock and it clicked open. Inside the massive drawer sat the most amazing collection of toys and prizes Peter had ever seen. "What's the prize box for?" he asked.

"It's for our younger patients, to reward them for being brave during a procedure."

"But I'm not a patient," Peter pointed out.

"I know that. But you don't have to be a patient to be brave, and I think you deserve something out of the prize box just as much. Go ahead."

Peter scanned her face for any indication she was kidding, but as far as he could tell she was genuine. He gazed into the drawer and his eyes instantly locked on a stuffed animal Chewbacca. No other prize held his attention like this one, so he picked it up and held it out in front of him with a hint of a smile ghosting his face.

"You want that one?"

"Yes." Peter hugged it to his chest and felt a miniscule amount of stress dissipate. He spent the next several hours sitting with the toy in his lap, holding its paw and mentally rehearsing every scene and piece of dialogue from Star Wars he could remember—which was practically all of them since he'd seen the movies dozens of times. It was the only thought process he could maintain without it spiraling into one related to "what if I lose May too?"

Whatever the surgeons did seemed to help. May woke up groggy, but in less pain than before. Her fever had dropped too, and the doctors were cautiously optimistic. Peter trusted them, having no other option at the moment. He showed his new stuffed animal to May.

"Is that a Chewie? Where'd you get him?"

"One of the nurses took me to the prize box they have for kids who are patients here."

"Oh, that was sweet of them. The pediatric ward here is pretty well-known, although the one at Gravesen is better. We've sent a few patients there," May explained.

"What makes it the best?"

"The nurses, obviously," she said with a smile. Peter had learned that nurses were always keen to point out that a patient's eye view of a hospital depended more on their quality of work than the doctors' or surgeons'. Nurses knew their patients as people, not just a condition with a name and insurance number tacked onto it. May often said that in some respects nurses were better at treating patients than doctors. "Disobeying a doctor's orders is called critical thinking," she often remarked.

"Not just that," she continued. "The collection of specialists there is more diverse than at most hospitals."

"Sounds like the place you want to be if you're sick," Peter commented. Later, he would wonder if Gravesen could have fixed things better. If they'd had access to that diverse collection of specialists, could they have done more, done something that actually _worked_?

~0~

Peter fell asleep curled up next to May in her hospital bed. He had no idea how much time had passed when he eventually woke up, but he was stiff from being wrapped so tightly around himself for so long. Upon opening his eyes, he saw May still rested peacefully, the angry red spots on her chest fading somewhat. He daydreamed about things going back to normal while he waited for her to awaken. Maybe an hour or so later, her eyes fluttered open. By then, Peter had relocated to the chair.

"Hey Peter," she greeted.

"Hi. How are you?" he asked.

"A bit better, I think."

"Good."

"Are you doing okay?"

"I'm good," he insisted, though the truth was anything but. He hadn't been 'good' since Ben died.

"Are you sure? You haven't been yourself lately," she said, suddenly wistful.

"Understandably so," Peter remarked.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

They had talked about it many times since it happened, discussed every aspect of each other's grief to help each other through. All except one. Peter had yet to reveal the deep-seated phobia that had haunted him since the shooting, afraid that burdening Aunt May with one more issue would finally break her. But these past few days had proven she was built from stronger stuff than Peter. Maybe telling her would actually help the both of them.

"Everything is so scary since Uncle Ben died," he began. "I can't even look at food without feeling like I'm back in that store getting shot at."

"What do you mean? You eat dinner with me every night without a problem."

"That's prepared food. Anything that's still in its packaging just reminds me of those shelves, and the noise, and the _blood_." Even just talking about it had Peter shaking like a brittle leaf hanging onto its tree by barely a thread. "I can't even open the fridge without freaking out," he admitted, desperation making his voice climb two octaves. May's eyes widened and she reached out to wrap her arms around him, pulling him close. Peter knew she could feel the tremors wracking him, but he could do nothing to quell them.

"Why didn't you tell me sooner?" she asked calmly.

"I—I didn't want you to have anything else to worry about," he cried, burrowing deeper into her embrace.

"Oh, Peter, I always worry about you. It's in my job description. And it's in yours to come to me when you need help."

"I thought about it a few times, but every time I did it aligned with you having a bad day and I decided not to. I just…I don't know how to fix it—how _anyone_ could fix it because the memory is stuck in my head and it will be there forever and I—I don't know what to do besides be scared for the rest of my life. But—but I don't _want_ to be scared for the rest of my life."

"You won't be," she assured, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. "Peter, you went through something traumatic at a very young age. I didn't expect you to bounce back to your old self, but I should've noticed that something was seriously wrong. I'm so sorry I didn't see it sooner."

"It's not your fault. I didn't want you to see it."

"But now that I have seen it we can get you some help."

"Do…do you really think someone will be able to fix it?"

"Yes, sweetheart. I do. It's not going to be easy, but," she paused mid-sentence to catch her breath, "But given time and the right kind of help, you can get better." She took another several seconds for her breathing to catch up. Peter could feel her chest heaving more than it should and he pulled away to look more closely at her face and found a hint of panic visible in her eyes. Alarms started to blare and Peter leapt out of the bed, calling for help. People flooded the room and crowded around May until Peter couldn't even see her anymore. He was left standing on the outskirts of the room clutching Chewie to his chest and trying futilely not to cry.

The swarm of people parted just long enough for Peter to see one pair of hands shove a tube down May's throat. He squeezed Chewie even tighter, until his muscles ached with the effort. They moved her into the intensive care unit, and Peter followed like a lost dog. Nobody stopped him. Voices started shouting things about kidney failure, plummeting platelet levels, and surging liver enzymes. More wires and tubes followed, and now Peter didn't even recognize his aunt. Looking at her reminded him all too much of looking at Uncle Ben collapsed in the aisle of that grocery store, blood staining his shirt.

Now, Peter couldn't even talk to May to ease his worries. One of the nurses offered to take a walk with him, but he adamantly refused to leave his post by her side. He was terrified that if he neglected her, she'd leave him, and then he'd be all alone. When his parents died, at least he'd still had May and Ben, and when Uncle Ben died, at least he'd still had May. But if May died, Peter would have no one. And if he had no one, what was even the point?

~0~

Things improved the next day. There was talk of weaning her off the ventilator. Peter sat in his chair, fist wrapped irreversibly around Chewie's paw, listening to them talk as they looked at charts and checked tubes and monitors. He took a deep breath and told himself that this might be the day she stopped declining and turned the corner back towards health. Though she remained asleep, Peter hoped that somehow May could hear him, so he started rambling like he used to when he was younger, sharing fun facts and asking hypothetical questions. Only this time, instead of for the pure joy of it, it was in the hopes that May would push through for an innocent little kid like him.

"Did you know that part of the sound mix used for Chewbacca's voice is a camel grunt?" he asked, running a hand through the stuffed animal's fur. "I don't know what all the other noises are, but it sure sounds pretty cool. I think they did a similar mixing for the T-rex roar in Jurassic Park because scientists don't really have a way of figuring out what dinosaurs sounded like. I think they would sound more like birds cawing than lions roaring, but it's funny to imagine them sounding like little peeping songbirds or something. Maybe they had advanced language like people do.

"Speaking of language, almost all the dialects in Star Wars are based off real languages. The Ewok language is based on Tibetan and Nepalese. I think it's so cool that these people who create fictional worlds go so in depth. Some of the more popular languages like Elvish from Lord of the Rings of High Valyrian from Game of Thrones are even available to learn on DuoLingo like Spanish or French would be. If that doesn't prove how widespread nerd culture is, I don't know what does. Maybe I should learn to speak Ewok. That would be cool, wouldn't it? Not very practical, but cool.

"I wonder if new languages are going to exist in a thousand years or so. Maybe English will be a dead language like Latin far in the future, and people will study words like "meme" and "dumpsterfire" with the same high regard that people nowadays study Shakespeare. We had to read some of his poems in English class last year. They were pretty boring, and that iambic pentameter stuff is so hard. I can't believe he wrote entire plays like that.

"I've always wanted to go see a play. Not on Broadway, I know those tickets are crazy expensive even in the cheap seats, but in a smaller theater. Our teacher said Shakespeare was meant to be enjoyed on the stage and not on the page, and I think maybe I'd appreciate it more if I could see it acted out. Maybe I'll just watch the movie version. Movies have always been more my speed.

"I just want to say thank you for being willing to put up with my only wanting to watch the same movies over and over again. I know you didn't see the appeal, but I'm glad you stuck around anyway. I promise when you get better you can make me watch all the old classic movies you want. I did like Ferris Bueller when you showed it to me, although you did make me promise to never skip school just to go joyriding. I would never do that anyway. Going to school _is_ joyriding, as far as I'm concerned, but I think I'm one of the only kids in the whole world who thinks that."

Peter stopped his rant when another alarm sounded. People flooded in and started looking over monitors with worried expressions on their faces. One of them shone a penlight in May's eyes and evidently didn't like what they saw, if their frown was anything to go by. "I think she's had a stroke," he remarked.

"What does that mean?" Peter asked.

"A blood clot in her brain." He looked at the monitors again and ordered more platelets. Another doctor came in within the next few minutes and agreed with everything the first had said.

"The toxin is destroying platelets faster than we can give them," she stated fearfully. Peter knew if the doctor sounded afraid, he should be too. He clutched Chewie in one hand and May's hand in the other, forcing himself not to hyperventilate. After that, things started to spiral. As soon as one alarm was silenced, another started screaming, indicating another organ failing to do its job properly. May was completely lost beneath a sea of medical equipment and staff, her hand in Peter's the only thing tying him to her.

He whispered a near-silent plea: "Please, Aunt May. I can't do this without you. You're the only family I have left, the only person in this world who really cares about me and loves me. Please don't go. _Please_ don't go."

The heart monitor started skipping beats as deep purple patches of subcutaneous bleeding spread across May's skin, creating a horrific mosaic. Peter let go of her hand and retreated to his chair, drawing his knees up to his chest to sandwich Chewie against him. He wrapped his arms around his shins and buried his closed eyes into his kneecaps. "Please don't go, please don't go, please don't go," he repeated the mantra over and over again in his head, begging May to fight through this, begging the doctors to figure out how to fix it, begging the universe not to take his last relative away from him.

None of them answered his plea. Peter drowned out the shrill whine of the flatlining heart monitor with the agonized sound of his screams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise this is the last of the heavy, tragic content. But now we get to explore Peter's mental state in the time following these events, and in some ways that might be worse. Also, I just want to point out that, "Disobeying a doctor's orders is called critical thinking," is something that my awesome nurse of a mother has said on multiple occasions.


	5. The Jones

"The Jones are going to look after you until you find your forever family," Mr. Harrington explained. Peter only half listened, staring out the window of the car as they drove out of the city center and towards a suburb he'd never visited before. Mr. Harrington was his assigned case worker. Because that's all he was now. A case. A collection of papers in a file folder, a problem that needed to be solved, a loose thread in the fabric of the world that the state of New York would try to tie up.

In the years since Peter's parents died, Aunt May and Uncle Ben hadn't changed their will to include a guardian for him in the event of their deaths. Peter didn't even know who they would have chosen if they did elect someone. Sure, they had friends, but no one close enough to feel like family, nobody who would say yes if asked to be the contingency plan for raising Peter. Aunt May and Uncle Ben _were_ the contingency plan, they shouldn't have had to devise another one. Evidently they hadn't thought that the universe could be cruel enough to rip away a second pair of parents from a boy who hadn't even reached his thirteenth birthday. But the universe _was_ that cruel; it had decided to rob Peter of the only security he'd ever known in his short life and left him adrift with nothing but the half-deflated life preserver that was the New York foster care system.

"They have a daughter your age, and another foster brother will be arriving in a few days," Mr. Harrington continued. Peter had never had siblings before, so the concept did intrigue him, but he feared these other kids would dislike him. Making friends wasn't exactly his specialty; Peter turned painfully shy when faced with new situations. However, if he was comfortable in a place, like he'd been with his aunt and uncle, he could talk endlessly about anything and everything.

Mr. Harrington pulled up to a single family house with a bright red door. A sidewalk cut through neatly trimmed grass in the front yard, a leafless tree casting a pattern of shadows over the concrete. Peter stepped out of the car and followed Mr. Harrington to the door, where he knocked three times in quick succession. He heard footsteps heading towards them from inside the house and hid himself partially behind Mr. Harrington. His foster parents opened the door with excited smiles on their faces and welcomed Peter and Mr. Harrington inside.

"It's nice to meet you, Peter," the man, Mr. Jones, said. Peter clasped his hands behind his back and stared at the floor.

"Would you like us to show you to your room?" Mrs. Jones asked. He nodded. The whole house was a lot for him to take in at the moment, having grown up in two-bedroom apartments, so maybe focusing on getting used to one room would help him. Mrs. Jones showed him upstairs and down a hallway with five doors: the master, a closet, their biological daughter Michelle's room, the bathroom, and the bedroom Peter would be sharing with his foster brother. It contained a bunk bed with plain navy blue sheets, a desk, a dresser, and two shelving units in the closet. Half of these belonged to Peter for the time being. The other half belonged to his foster brother who he'd yet to meet.

Mr. Harrington and Mr. Jones brought all of Peter's things into the room. "I'm going to go now, but you know how to reach me if you need anything, okay?" Mr. Harrington said. Peter didn't want him to go; he was the only familiar face in this house right now, but he knew it had to happen eventually, so he nodded and started unpacking to distract himself.

As Peter unpacked, the Jones' daughter Michelle lingered in the doorway, silently watching his every move with an almost frightening intensity. He didn't know what to say to her. Should he apologize for taking what once might have been a spare room for her to use, or for wresting her only child status away from her? Should he introduce himself? Should he just ignore her? That seemed rude, but he couldn't tell if she was there because she wanted to be acknowledged or because she just wanted to observe him. Besides, Peter wasn't sure he could bring himself to speak to her with the steady terror of being in a new place with brand new people.

All of the things in his old apartment that didn't belong specifically to Peter had been dealt with according to May's will, but he snagged a locket of hers that contained a picture of the three of them and removed it, placing it in the last empty slot of his mother's locket that he'd taken when she died. Now he had only one necklace with photos of both his families inside. Peter wore it every day, the pendant hidden beneath his shirt. He'd had a sweatshirt of Ben's ever since he died, and one of his father's too. He stowed those in the back of the bottommost drawer; he only wore them when he felt particularly scared and alone. They were way too big for him, but he found comfort in the feeling of being swaddled by the heavy fabric that still bore a ghost of a scent of his dad and uncle.

It took him less time than he expected to unpack everything, but he didn't know which bunk to settle his Chewbacca on. His foster brother would want a say in whether he got top or bottom, right? Just because he got there first didn't give him the right to call dibs. Unable to make a decision and too afraid to ask, he just left Chewy in a drawer to postpone the choice.

"Michelle, Peter! Dinner's ready," Mrs. Jones called. Peter's stomach clenched—not with hunger, but with revulsion. His appetite was still in shambles after the food poisoning, but after watching his Aunt May die from the same thing that made him sick, the very idea of letting any food pass his lips made him nauseous. Despite this, he trudged to the table and stood beside it, staring at the six empty seats. In his family, they'd always sat in the same seats due to some unspoken agreement. He didn't know if the Jones had a similar system, so he waited until all three of them seated themselves before taking an empty chair across from Michelle and next to Mr. Jones.

Peter knew it was rude not to eat food that someone generously cooked for him, but he was certain he would have to run straight to the bathroom if he swallowed even a single bite. He made sure to move things around his plate with his fork, occasionally bring it to his mouth empty, and take sips of water. Michelle eyed him suspiciously, but she didn't comment. She hadn't spoken a single word to him since he'd arrived here, and a part of Peter wondered if she was mute.

She answered that question without him having to ask it when she responded to conversation among her parents. They talked among themselves, leaving time for Peter to interject if he wanted to, but not asking him any direct questions that demanded answers. He was glad they offered the freedom not to talk, because he was scared out of his mind that they'd ask why he wasn't eating or what he thought of Mrs. Jones' cooking, and he absolutely did not want to go into any of that. Peter didn't know how much of his life story Mr. Harrington had told them, but he didn't want to run the risk of his foster parents finding out that the mere sight of food could turn him into a manic ball of nerves and terror. They hadn't signed up to take care of a kid who freaked out at such mundane stimuli, and if they found out they might not be willing to shelter him anymore. The only thing that could make this worse was being uprooted yet again. So Peter did his best to pretend he enjoyed dinner, and even helped load the dishwasher.

"Thank you, Peter," Mrs. Jones said. He nodded his head slightly to acknowledge her, but retreated to his room at the first opportunity. Reluctant to claim either bed as his own without consulting his future foster brother, Peter grabbed the pillow off of one and a spare blanket from the closet and slept on the floor.

~0~

The foster brother arrived three days later. In that time, he'd managed to hide his not-eating with the same strategies he used that first night. He knew he couldn't survive on nothing but water, but the constant fear of getting sick again, as sick as May, weighed heavily on his mind. The doctors had said it definitely came from the meatloaf, but he knew diseases could come from other foods too, especially meat, produce, and dairy products. Mrs. Jones packed his lunch for school every day, a luxury he hadn't had since before Ben, but the only thing he could bring himself to eat was the bread of his sandwich, as long as it didn't have any condiments on it. Hiding out in the library and skipping lunch wasn't an option at his new school; a pass from a teacher was required to get in during lunchtime and he doubted he could get one more than once a week without raising suspicion. Plus, after barely eating dinner the previous evening and skipping breakfast, the mild faintness and queasiness that he now experienced almost constantly spiked uncomfortably if he had nothing at lunch too.

The fear of passing out, an action which would inevitably prove there was something wrong with him, was great enough to take the edge off his fear of being poisoned by what he ate, but only with foods he deemed safe. There weren't many of those. He was expected to make his own breakfast on weekday mornings, but everyone was so busy getting ready for work and school that nobody noticed that he had nothing but water. He figured that opening the fridge or kitchen cabinets would still send him spiraling into panic, reliving _that_ day, and he knew that the Jones would send him back if they realized they'd been given a broken child.

Peter was excited to meet his foster brother, someone who must share some life experience with him. He'd gotten exactly nowhere with Michelle. She wasn't mute; she talked to her parents sometimes, but was yet to speak directly to Peter. In her defense, Peter hadn't spoken directly to her either—or at all. Peter didn't have much reason to talk, not having anything of note to share with the Jones, and if they asked him a question he found himself too shy to answer with anything beyond a nod, head shake, or shrug. If they were concerned that he wasn't speaking to them, they didn't show it. Maybe temporary mutism was common among kids dropped into new families like this.

The first thought to cross his mind when the kid arrived at the house was "Did I look like that?" He looked positively terrified, staring at the house as if it was a vast jungle full of dangerous unknown creatures. Peter tried to stay out of the way as the Jones conversed with the boy and Mr. Harrington, who must have been a case worker for this boy too. Peter wasn't technically part of the family, so he shouldn't be a part of the welcome home bit. But when they showed him to the room, Peter thought he ought to be there since he was to be the kid's roommate. He had dark hair that desperately needed to be trimmed and stood at about the same height as Peter.

This kid looked so darn scared that Peter felt he needed to do something to put him at ease, and the first thing that came to mind was just introducing himself. "H—Hi," he said nervously. "I'm Peter." If the Jones were surprised or relieved that he'd finally spoken, they didn't show it.

"I'm Ned," the boy responded, though he didn't bring his gaze up to meet Peter's.

"Nice to meet you. I haven't claimed either bed yet, so you can pick whichever one you want." Sleeping on the floor hadn't been nearly as bad as Peter thought it would be. The carpet in the room was thick and soft, and it was better than worrying about upsetting his foster brother.

"Bottom's fine," he mumbled.

"Okay." Peter was almost certain he hadn't come across as quite this terrified when he first got here, but he couldn't be sure. Ned looked like he anticipated the paintings on the walls to come to life and try to murder them at any second. Peter's number one concern, on the other hand, had been waking up in the middle of the night and forgetting where the bathroom was. He climbed up to his bed and tried to come up with a conversation starter while Ned started unpacking. The other boy had no real luggage to speak of, having brought his things here in plain plastic bins. Ned didn't have very many clothes compared to Peter, not that Peter had an excessive amount by any means. Michelle did not man her post in the doorway this time, possibly afraid of being outnumbered.

Trying not to stare at Ned while he worked, Peter picked up one of the three books he owned. All were Star Wars official novels, and this was his favorite of them. He didn't have the focus to actually read it for comprehension, but it gave him something to look at other than Ned. Peter sensed the attention made him even more uncomfortable. However, he couldn't help but notice when he packed away a tee identical to one Peter owned.

"Hey, is that a Stormtrooper shirt?" Peter asked, elated that he might have something in common with this kid beyond being foster kids. Ned nodded meekly as he messily folded the shirt and stuffed it away. "I have the same exact one."

"Cool." Ned still refused to look at him, but Peter wasn't going to let this one potential connection fizzle out so easily.

"Do you have a favorite character?" He started with the most innocent question he could think of.

"Obi-Wan," Ned answered. Peter detected the barest hint of genuine enthusiasm in Ned's voice and mentally congratulated himself for getting this far. He waited for Ned to reciprocate the question, but it quickly became evident he wasn't going to string that many words together.

"Personally, I like C3PO. But Chewbacca was the only one they had, so that's how I ended up with this guy." He held up his stuffed Chewy. Peter glanced between Ned and the character in his hand and thought about every time it had been there for him. Sections of its fur were permanently textured differently from being soaked in tears so many times. "When I'm feeling really scared, he helps make things not so scary." Peter climbed back down and left Chewbacca on the foot of Ned's bed before climbing back up. Handing it to him seemed too forceful, and Peter wanted him to feel in control. He knew one of the worst parts of this was the complete lack of control. Silence descended over the room, but Peter didn't let it continue for more than a few minutes.

"I've only been here a few days," he began. "But I can try to answer any questions you might have. I don't know if you've…done this before." Peter hadn't paused to consider that maybe this wasn't Ned's first foster home. He knew nothing of his past or the path he took to end up here, though he hoped it was less painful than his own story. Finally, Ned turned and looked at him. His eyes scanned over Peter from head to toe, long enough for him to grow uncomfortable under the scrutiny. Ned's expression shifted from fearful to concerned and he seemed to muster the courage to speak more than one or two words at a time.

"Do they…do they feed you?" he questioned.

Peter glanced down at himself, wondering why looking at him had made Ned ask such a question. He knew he'd lost some weight; his clothes had been slowly growing baggier ever since Ben, but it was normal to have an abnormal appetite while grieving. He'd barely escaped the worst phase of grief for his uncle when his aunt died too and started the cycle all over again. Besides, it couldn't be _that_ bad. Ned probably asked that question because he'd heard somewhere that some foster parents could be neglectful.

"Yeah," Peter answered. "Yeah, of course they feed us. Mrs. Jones even packs me a lunch for school every day."

"That's…nice."

"Yeah, it is."

"Are they?"

"Are they what?"

"Nice?"

"Yes. They're very nice." As soon as Peter said that, Ned appeared to loosen up by several degrees.

"And the girl?"

"I don't know. She doesn't talk to me," Peter admitted. "Whenever we're in the same room, she just kinda stares." When Ned blanched at this description, Peter amended, "I don't think she's dangerous or anything. Just shy."

"Shy," Ned echoed with a nod. He'd already finished unpacking, and Peter couldn't help but notice how few things this kid had to call his own. Ned gravitated to the bed and, much to Peter's delight, picked up the Chewbacca toy and hugged it to his chest.

"Anything else you want to know?" Peter asked, though he sensed Ned had already reached his upper limit for chatter. No response sounded from the bed below, so Peter returned to his book. If he couldn't break the ice, he'd just have to wait for it to thaw.

~0~

Peter missed his old life with Aunt May more and more each day. No more movie nights, no more crazy nursing stories, no more lazy Saturday morning chocolate milk. He'd dealt with death before, but something about hers was taking a lot longer to sink in. Possibly it was because he was all alone in his grief. When his parents died, Aunt May and Uncle Ben missed them too. And when Uncle Ben died, Aunt May missed him too. Both those times he'd had comfort. Now he felt like the only person in the world dealing with her loss. He had nobody to turn to when he needed to cry—even Chewbacca now basically belonged to Ned and Peter didn't have the heart to take it back from him. The other boy clearly needed it more.

Peter knew nothing about why Ned was in foster care. He wasn't even sure if Mr. and Mrs. Jones knew. Now that he thought about it, he wasn't even sure if they knew Peter's backstory. Was it his responsibility to tell them? That couldn't be the case. He was just a cog in this machine, not one who controlled it. If he was supposed to tell them things, they would've asked by now. They asked him almost every day if he wanted to talk about anything, and his answer was always no. He didn't trust himself to talk about anything without breaking down. And if he broke down, he might lose the closest thing to a family he had in this world. Peter did, however ask them a question that had been bothering him since he got here.

Peter wasn't sure how it would be received, but it did need to be answered with some urgency if he had any hope of making this arrangement less awkward for him and his new foster family. He approached them after dinner a few days after Ned arrived and nervously broached the subject, "Um…I've never really been…in this situation before, so I don't know how this normally works, but am—am I supposed to call you Mom and Dad?"

"Do you want to?" Mrs. Jones asked warmly.

Peter didn't know. Aunt May and Uncle Ben had stayed May and Ben even after they became his guardians, but that was different because he'd already had a relation to them beforehand. He imagined himself walking up to this woman and saying, "Mom," and the thought filled him with a sense of wrongness. He didn't know why, but he didn't think he wanted to call them that.

"I—I don't think so," he admitted sheepishly. Hopefully they wouldn't find that offensive.

"That's okay," she assured him. "You can call us Mr. and Mrs. Jones, or Daniel and Rebecca. Whichever you prefer."

"Okay."

A week in and Michelle still hadn't spoken to Peter or Ned. If her parents were concerned about this lack of communication with her foster brothers, they didn't express it. But Peter was concerned. He couldn't tell if she resented, feared, or despised him. Or some combination of all three. When she finally did talk to him, her words confirmed exactly none of those possibilities.

"The average time a kid spends in foster care is about twenty months," she stated. No preamble. Michelle just stood in the doorway to Peter and Ned's room—they never closed it; Peter noticed Ned got nervous when it was closed—and blurted that fact out. He glanced to Ned to gauge his reaction to the statement and compare it to his own disbelief at Michelle's forwardness.

"That's…not exactly helpful," Peter said unsurely. Did she say that because she was afraid they'd be here in her house that long? Given his immediate alternative, Peter wouldn't mind staying here for nearly two years. The only way out for him was adoption or aging out. He hoped every night that the former would happen before the latter.

"It wasn't supposed to be." Michelle shrugged.

Peter didn't know where she intended that conversation to lead, and it didn't look like she was going to give an additional nudge in any direction, so he took the helm and asked, "Are we your first foster siblings?" It seemed like a reasonable enough question, though Michelle looked at him as if he'd just asked if she was secretly a superhero. After an awkward, long hesitation, she nodded. Peter considered it a victory. "You and Ned are my first foster siblings. First siblings of _any_ kind, actually."

"I guess we have that in common." Peter shuffled his feet nervously. Finding things in common was how he'd been taught to make friends as a little kid, and the principle should still apply here. "It's pretty weird, isn't it?"

Michelle nodded again. So did Ned.

"Most brothers and sisters know each other their whole lives, but we all just met," Peter continued. "We're more like roommates than siblings. Now, I've never had a roommate before, but I know that sometimes they become friends. Do you guys think maybe we could do that?"

"Yeah," Ned said with more enthusiasm than Peter had ever heard from him.

"Sure," Michelle added.

"Okay." Peter tried to hide the sheer amount of excitement he was experiencing at the prospect of making friends. He was tired of being bored when there were two kids his age around all the time.

"Have you guys ever played Telestrations?" Michelle asked. Peter and Ned shook their heads. "It's basically Pictionary combined with telephone."

"Sounds fun," Peter said. She led them to a closet he'd never opened before and pulled out the game. They had to bend the rules a little bit to accommodate only three players, but they managed. By the second round they were laughing so hard their hands were shaking, making their drawings even worse and therefore making them laugh harder.

"Peter, why did you draw an ostrich with four legs?" Michelle asked between giggles.

"Is that not what they look like?"

"Ostriches only have two legs," Ned informed him.

"Sorry. But I think the more important question is how 'human pyramid' somehow turned into 'no mushrooms.'"

"I genuinely don't know," Michelle stated.

"Mushrooms are gross," Ned added.

"That may be true, but that doesn't even come close to answering the question."

Ned only smirked at him and they all dissolved into breathless laughter once again. At one point Mr. Jones came into the room to investigate the commotion and Peter could literally _hear_ him smiling at his daughter finally getting along with her foster siblings. Then he insisted on joining the game. He was actually a really good artist, so they had to set a timer to ensure he couldn't make his drawings too good and easy to guess. The game was way more fun when the drawings were terrible and the guesses got weird and specific. For the first time in a while, Peter felt like a part of a family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know if any of you have ever played Telestrations, but it is so ridiculous and fun. Both of the situations described in this chapter are things I've seen happen in a game.


	6. Hot Chocolate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just had a snow day myself last week, and this chapter just makes me happy.

"As you both know, Thanksgiving is coming up," Mr. Jones said to Peter and Ned, sitting side by side on Ned's bed reading one of Peter's Star Wars books. They sensed the beginning of an important conversation so Peter dog-eared the page and set the book aside. "I don't know how you're used to celebrating, but here it's a pretty quiet holiday. There's not going to be a hoard of extended family stampeding in here. We're just going to have dinner and maybe watch the football game on TV, sound good?"

Peter and Ned both nodded. He hadn't even thought about the approaching holiday until Mr. Jones brought it up. Last Thanksgiving had been the first one without Uncle Ben, so he and May hadn't really been in the celebrating mood. They ate some of the traditional foods, but neither could really find it in their hearts to be thankful for much when the sorrow was so fresh. At the time, Peter was thankful he still had May, and that was about it. Now he didn't even have that.

"I came in here to ask if you had any favorite Thanksgiving foods that you wanted me and Mrs. Jones to make."

The request didn't surprise Peter. Mrs. Jones often asked what he wanted for dinner, but he'd always answered with an insistence that he didn't care. Whatever she made Peter didn't really eat anyway; everything carried the potential to hurt him. The only things he'd been brave enough to even try at dinner since May were white rice, plain pasta, and a few types of cooked vegetables. He'd gotten very good at hiding food in napkins so his foster parents didn't grow suspicious of his continued lack of appetite. If they noticed, it was only a matter of time before they discovered how messed up Peter really was, and he didn't want to see what would happen if they discovered that. Plus, they were probably legally obliged to report that sort of thing to his case worker, and he didn't want that to happen either.

But now he was expected to make a request for Thanksgiving, and he couldn't say nothing. And they would definitely make sure he ate some of the dish he'd specifically asked for. He had to think of something safe enough he could make himself eat enough of it to please them. Peter thought for a few moments, and a memory of Thanksgivings long ago resurfaced. Back when his parents were alive, they hosted the holiday. Aunt May and Uncle Ben brought cranberry sauce because it was one of the only things May could make without drastically over or undercooking. And his mother always baked these homemade rolls. When she baked them the heavenly aroma of baking bread spread throughout the entire apartment, and Peter would sneak a peek in the oven every so often to watch them turn golden brown.

"My mom used to bake homemade rolls. Could…could you do that?" he asked hesitantly, unsure if he was asking too much.

"Yeah, of course. That sounds fantastic. What about you, Ned?"

"I've never celebrated Thanksgiving before," he admitted almost inaudibly, his gaze fixed on the floor.

"That's okay. Is there any particular food you want on a special day? It doesn't have to be traditionally for Thanksgiving."

"Mashed potatoes."

"You're in luck, because mashed potatoes are a Jones Thanksgiving staple. I've gotten pretty good at mashing potatoes since Rebecca put me in charge of them the year after Michelle was born."

"Really?"

"Yeah. You can even help make them if you want."

"Okay."

"You too, Peter."

The thought terrified him. A busy kitchen was sure to set him off somehow. He'd avoided another incident like that first one since arriving here and he intended to keep it that way for as long as possible. Peter decided to go for the same escape he'd used when May made dinner. "Can I just set the table instead? Cooking isn't really my thing."

"Sure. You and Michelle can set the table while the three of us cook."

"Okay."

Thanksgiving Day proceeded without a hitch, much to Peter's relief. He found the football game rather boring, but Mrs. Jones refused to let anyone change the channel. The three kids just played card games in the family room so they could all be together but not bored out of their minds. Setting the table kept Peter's attention away from the open kitchen cabinets and he avoided freaking out over anything. The scent of the rolls baking made him happier than airborne molecules had any right to, but he loved it. When they all sat down together, he quietly refused to touch turkey or the buttery mashed potatoes, but he managed some green beans and two rolls. It wasn't a feast by any stretch of the imagination, but more than Peter had eaten at one sitting in quite a while. All things considered, it was definitely a good day.

~0~

Peter thought their first snow day of the year would also be a good day, and it was—for the most part. In the city where Peter grew up, pristine snow lasted maybe twelve hours before relentless traffic soiled it and turned white fluff to brown sludge. But here, much farther from the constant hustle and bustle of the city, it remained beautiful for much longer. The first footsteps to disturb the snowfall outside the Jones' house were Michelle, Ned, and Peter's. School was canceled, so they set aside the whole day for winter wonderland fun instead.

The cold tore into him, but the effort of running around through a thick blanket of snow quickly warmed him up. Michelle made snow angels in the driveway while Peter and Ned set about building a snow-Tauntaun. Neither of them was the greatest of sculptors, so it came out looking more like a sorry excuse for a t-rex, but they both laughed about their complete lack of artistic skill and made snowballs to throw at Michelle out of the Tauntaun until it was nothing more than a small pile of disturbed snow. They stockpiled about twenty snowballs and started moving snow to shore up a defensive barricade. Michelle, ever observant, immediately caught on and retreated to the opposite side of the driveway to build up her own arsenal and defense. It was two against one, but Michelle worked efficiently and skillfully. By the time Ned lobbed the first snowball at her, she'd constructed a snow wall with literal battlements.

Michelle fought them solo, but she threw with more accuracy than either Peter or Ned possessed. Peter took a hit to the shoulder, then to the back, a glancing blow to the ear, and finally Michelle nailed him right in the face. She and Ned both started laughing, until Peter retaliated and managed to hit Michelle's shoulder.

"I declare a ceasefire!" Mr. Jones announced as he trundled outside all bundled up. "Whoever shovels the most gets me on their team for snowball fight round two." All three of them scrambled to clear the driveway. Peter had never shoveled snow before, having lived in apartments all his life, and it was much more difficult than he ever imagined. The snow was wet and heavy, and moving it around on the end of a shovel taxed Peter's whole body. By the time he cleared a section the size of an area rug, he was nauseous and shaky, but he felt obligated to contribute to all household chores for the family kind enough to take him in, and this certainly counted.

Peter gathered another shovelful and teetered as he picked it up to toss it aside. The edges of his vision turned black, and suddenly he awoke staring up at the snow-bright sky. "Peter!" Michelle called, racing over to his side. "Are you okay?"

"'M fine," he mumbled, squirming to a sitting position in the thick snow. He moved to stand, but decided against it when the blackness threatened to return.

"What's going on?" Mr. Jones asked as he made his way over.

"I don't know, I just saw him fall," Michelle explained. "Did you faint?"

"I don't know," Peter admitted. That was probably it, but fainting was a big deal and Peter didn't want to make a big deal of nothing. He'd fallen into soft snow, so he hadn't even hurt himself. It was nothing. The shakiness remained, but he probably just needed to rehydrate.

"Let's get you inside," Mr. Jones said. He helped Peter to his feet—they were unsteady, but not incapable of holding him up—and led him back into the house.

"I'm okay," Peter insisted. "Prob'ly just need to drink some water and warm up a bit."

"How about some hot chocolate?" Mr. Jones suggested. Peter hoped he hadn't noticeably paled at the suggestion. How could he finagle his way out of this? Mr. Jones would definitely notice if Peter didn't drink any of something he'd prepared exclusively for him. When no escape presented itself, Peter tried a different tactic: turning hot cocoa into a safe food by whatever means possible.

"Um, okay. But no marshmallows, please. And, can you leave the stirring spoon in the mug?"

"If that's how you like it, then alright."

Peter sighed in relief. That was how May always prepared his chocolate milk on the weekends, one of Peter's favorite traditions, and one of the only good things in his life post-Ben. If he focused on that, maybe he could bring himself to drink some of Mr. Jones' cocoa. Ned and Michelle, having finished clearing the driveway, came inside just in time to request their own cocoa.

"Sure thing," Mr. Jones said. He passed Peter his mug, spoon still inside, and got to work on two more. Peter closed his eyes, imagined he sat at his old kitchen table with May, and took a cautious sip. The warmth filled him from toe to top, the chocolate taste coating the inside of his mouth. Mr. Jones must have taken note of his expression of bliss, because he asked with a smile, "Is it good?"

Peter nodded after he swallowed. Pacing himself to make the pleasant memory last longer, he downed the whole mug while Ned dug for marshmallows with his spoon and Michelle sipped at hers with the authority of a professor drinking black coffee.

As afternoon turned to evening, Mr. Jones got the fireplace going and all five of them curled up in front of it to play board games. Catan only suited four players, so Peter and Ned offered to play as a team. Michelle won handedly, as she often did, but Peter and Ned's combined strategy earned them a solid second place.

"Today was a good day," Ned sighed as they crawled into bed long after their bedtime, betting on school being canceled again the next day.

"Yeah, today was a good day," Peter agreed.

"But every day since I got here has been a good day compared to before."

Ned had never told him exactly what his life before foster care was like, and Peter never asked. From the clues he gave, Peter surmised it was a whole lot worse than any living situation Peter had ever found himself in. He was glad Ned got out, and even more glad that the two of them had been assigned to the same foster home. Ned was the first person Peter could call a friend since before Uncle Ben died. Maybe Peter was that same thing to Ned.

~0~

Last Christmas had been the first one without Uncle Ben. Peter and May had tried their best to bring some Christmas cheer to the hollow apartment, picking out a live tree that made the whole place smell like pine and dropped needles all over the floor, keeping the twenty four hour marathon of a Christmas Story on to prevent any grief-filled silences, and giving each other modest but meaningful presents. May had given Peter one of Ben's old hoodies, the one Peter had stowed in the bottom drawer of his dresser here at the Jones, and Peter had gifted her a cookbook. It was half gag gift to make fun of her notoriously mediocre cooking and half "please use this often because I can really only bring myself to eat when you make food."

This Christmas was the first one without Aunt May. The Jones tried their best to bring some Christmas cheer to the house, dragging their artificial tree down from the attic and summoning all three kids to help decorate it. Peter tried his best to find joy, but every ornament he placed, every souvenir from a family trip, every arts and crafts project from a preschool-aged Michelle, every fragile crystal passed down from grandparents, reminded him of the family he didn't have any more.

Ned, on the other hand, was having a blast. By looking at him, one would think he'd never experienced Christmas before. Actually, given what he'd deduced about the kid's past, it was very possible that he hadn't. At least, not like this, with the family together, the house smelling vaguely of peppermint, and a classic Christmas playlist on in the background. Peter held himself together until he found a locket-shaped ornament with family pictures of the Jones inside. As soon as he laid eyes on that, his hand flew to his own locket around his neck and his eyes flooded with tears.

"Peter, can we help?" Mrs. Jones asked sincerely. He appreciated that she didn't say something stupid like "What's wrong," instead opting to ask a more pertinent question. Unfortunately, Peter doubted that anything they could do would assuage this feeling. He shook his head and dashed off to his room, wanting nothing more than to be alone. His grief shouldn't detract from the rest of them having a merry Christmas.

Peter lost track of time, and the next thing he knew Mrs. Jones was asking him if he wanted to come to dinner. "I'm not hungry," he confessed, and she let it slide. By the next morning he was mostly back to himself, sitting with Ned as they watched Michelle open the compartment of the advent calendar for the day. Christmas Eve was almost as rough as tree-decorating day for Peter, the day dredging up memories of every Christmas Eve in the peaceful interlude between his parents' and his aunt and uncle's deaths. Mr. and Mrs. Jones prepared a wonderful dinner, and they seemed to remember Peter requesting rolls at Thanksgiving because they prepared the same ones that night. He managed to eat one of them, but stopped there because when memories of May were close to the surface, memories of her death were right there too. The Jones go-to movie was Elf, a film cheerful enough to elicit smiles from even Peter. He did cry himself to sleep, but he dreamed of a Christmas with May, Ben, and his parents. When he awoke on Christmas morning, he wasn't sure if it was a long-buried memory from before the car accident or a desperate longing for a future that could never be.

Michelle knocked on their door at eight o'clock sharp to alert them to the commencement of the festivities. Ned bounded out of bed, still in his pajamas, and raced out the door. Peter took a little longer, still in a bit of a haze, and earned himself a concerned glance from Michelle. He forced a smile for her and followed her out to the living room. The presents had been sitting under the tree for weeks now, but a new one had been added. A big one, addressed to Peter and Ned.

"Stockings first," Mr. Jones insisted when he saw the boys eyeing the big box. Michelle's had her name embroidered in it, but Peter and Ned had each claimed a generic one, Peter's with a reindeer and Ned's with a snowman on it. Inside were the usual stocking stuffers: chocolates, candies, socks, and the like. Peter surreptitiously slid his into Ned's pile. If the boy noticed he didn't mention it. He thought seeing the wrapped sweets would trigger a panic attack, but fortunately they looked different enough from stocked grocery store shelves that he only felt his heart pound slightly.

Ned locked eyes with Peter and they simultaneously turned their heads to the big box. "Go ahead," Mrs. Jones prompted. He should've guessed based on the style of wrapping paper—Darth Vaders with candy canes and Stormtroopers with mistletoe—that the gift had something to do with the passion he and Ned shared for Star Wars, but even if he had guessed that much he never would've gotten the whole thing. Growing up, Peter's aunt and uncle never had the money to spare for extravagant gifts like this. Ned tore a strip of paper off and revealed enough of the box for Peter to identify it: a LEGO Death Star.

"No way," Ned exclaimed.

"This is too much," Peter continued.

"Merry Christmas," Mr. Jones said. "I hope you don't mind that you'll have to share it."

"Not at all!" they assured. Half the fun would be building it together. Peter didn't know what to say. Thank you definitely wouldn't cover his feelings towards this. The last month had been difficult for him, with all the family-centric holidays reminding him of what he'd lost, but this demonstrated just how much Mr. and Mrs. Jones paid attention and cared about him and Ned. They may not be related by blood, but Peter was beyond grateful to consider them family.

Peter and Ned helped clean up discarded wrapping paper before tearing into their new toy. Michelle rolled her eyes at their juvenile enthusiasm, but she sat nearby where they were building with one of the books she'd gotten that morning. "On a scale of one to ten how good are you at finding pieces in the big pile?" Peter asked.

"Maybe a six or seven," Ned answered.

"That's better than me." With the size of the LEGO set, Peter estimated it would take them at least a week to finish if they worked an hour or two each day. Knowing them, they'd probably get it done sooner.


	7. Ten LEGOs

The LEGO Death Star project reached completion on New Year's Eve. After Ned placed the final piece, the two of them sat back and just stared at it in awe for a solid five minutes. "I want to play with it," Ned said shyly.

"I do too," Peter replied without looking away.

"Are we too old to play with it?"

"I don't know."

"Because building LEGO sets and playing with LEGOs are two very different activities."

"You're right. The question is: who cares?"

"Who cares about what?" Ned asked.

"Whether or not we're too old. Because I don't think I do."

"Me neither."

Almost an hour later, Michelle walked in on them. "You guys are losers."

"We know," Peter replied nonchalantly.

"Are you going to stay up until midnight?"

"We're allowed to?" Ned questioned, sounding genuinely shocked.

Michelle eyed him strangely. "Yeah, of course. It's a ridiculous tradition for a practically meaningless holiday, but it gives me an opportunity to read in good lighting for a few more hours than usual."

"Your favorite part about New Year's is getting to stay up late so you can read?" Peter clarified.

"Yeah. Problem?"

"No. Not at all."

"So what is it about these toys that has you two so excited?" she asked, walking fully into the room and sitting down beside them to look more closely at the massive LEGO creation.

"LEGOs are the superior toy," Ned proclaimed. "And this is the first time I've had more than, like, ten of them to build things with."

"Ten LEGOs?" Peter questioned. "That's practically nothing."

Ned shrank into himself, and Peter knew he'd accidentally poked at a sensitive topic. "The only LEGOs I ever had were ones I found."

"Where did you find LEGOs?" Michelle asked.

"I used to find them in kindergarten. They had a whole box of them and sometimes one would get lost during clean-up and stay on the floor. I never outright stole from the box, but I took the ones that didn't find their way back. Let's see…I sometimes found them on the sidewalk. Oh, and one time I found a minifigure at the bottom of the pool. _That_ was crazy."

"What can you even build with ten LEGOs?" Peter questioned.

"You'd be surprised. There's actually an algorithm that calculated how many different ways you can put six LEGOs together, and it's over nine hundred million."

"Which kind of brick?"

"The classic eight-stud ones."

"Nine hundred million different ways?" Michelle repeated.

"Yep. I definitely didn't make nearly that many, but I did the best with what I had. It's actually a great exercise in creativity," Ned explained.

"Sounds like it," Peter said. He couldn't help but be saddened by Ned's story about how he obtained LEGOs. While his family could never afford any of the big, expensive sets, he grew up with a box of all different kinds of bricks for building things like houses and cars. He and Uncle Ben used to challenge each other to construction races, and then May would judge their creations and pick the winner. She almost always picked Peter.

"Hey Michelle, why do you like to read so much?" Ned asked, changing the subject. Peter also wondered about this. At school, she spent the entire lunch period with her nose buried in a book, she spent most of her free time at home reading, and she'd just informed them that extra reading time was her favorite part of New Year's.

She shrugged. "When people see you with a book open, they're less likely to try and talk to you."

"You don't want people to talk to you?" Peter said.

"Not really."

"Why not?"

"People are annoying."

"Are we annoying?" Ned asked.

"Especially you," she confirmed.

"You're going to be so smart by the time you get to high school with all the books you've read," Peter stated.

"That's another reason I like reading. It's one of the best ways to learn new things."

"So is talking to people," Peter informed her.

"Not people our age," she countered. "They're idiots."

Peter couldn't argue with that.

"You never answered my question about why LEGOs are so cool."

"You start with a messy pile of colored bricks and you finish with a recognizable structure," Peter explained. "Watching it come to life step by step as you build it is just magical. And designing your own creations is super fun too. It's like being an engineer, only without a college degree."

"Noted," she quipped.

"What toys did you play with when you were younger?" Ned asked.

"Books."

"You're not serious. At some point in your life you hadn't learned to read yet and you had to do something else."

"I played outside with my cousins when our families got together. Still do, actually."

"How old are your cousins?"

"The one I see the most often is two years older than me. He loves soccer, so I ended up playing that with him a lot."

"What about when you were by yourself? Or when you had friends over here for a playdate?" Peter asked.

"I did used to have some dolls," she admitted. "I named them after women in politics like Madeleine Albright, Angela Merkel, and Ruth Bader Ginsberg."

"I should have guessed that," Peter said. "Do you still have them?"

"I think my mom kept them when I outgrew them. They might be in the attic. Or she gave them away."

"That might be the cutest thing I've ever heard," Ned said brightly.

"Shut up," Michelle grumbled. "You're the ones playing with what is basically a space dollhouse."

"It's not a dollhouse! It's a spaceship that is also a deadly weapon capable of blowing up entire planets!"

"Can it blow me up so I don't have to participate in this conversation anymore?"

"No. I'm pretty sure being convicted of murder makes you really hard to place in the foster care system," Peter joked.

"We certainly don't take in killers," Michelle replied. "Just losers."

"Hey!" Peter knew she meant it as a term of endearment, but he still reflexively defended himself and Ned. The room fell silent for all of ten seconds before all three of them erupted into laughter.

~0~

Now that winter break was over, school started again. Peter was one of those kids that was glad to go back, partly because he loved school and partly because it made it easier to disguise his eating habits from Mr. and Mrs. Jones. They still didn't suspect a thing, much to Peter's relief. He prided himself on his ability to keep this hidden from them, almost as much as he feared what would happen if they found out. Months passed and Peter started to think that nobody would notice even if he let his guard down a little bit. But evidently, some people paid more attention to him than his foster parents did.

"Peter."

The tone of Ned's voice made him freeze where he stood in front of his open dresser drawer. He stopped searching for the t-shirt he wanted to wear to bed and listened while Ned sorted out what he was going to say next.

"Are you…okay?" Ned hesitantly asked.

"Yeah, of course," Peter insisted. "Why do you ask?"

"It's just…" Ned didn't seem to know what he wanted to say. Either that, or he did know and he was too afraid to say it.

"It's just what?" Peter turned around to face his brother and found him cowering worse than he had during his first days here.

"When was the last time you looked in a mirror?"

"What are you talking about? Is there something on my face?" Peter questioned.

"No! It's not that. You just don't look…healthy," he admitted, dropping his gaze to the floor.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Beyond a cold or two, Peter hadn't gotten sick since the food poisoning incident.

"You're too skinny," Ned informed him. "And I've seen the way you eat; you barely touch your lunch or dinner. I'm worried about you."

Peter set his jaw and narrowed his eyes. He thought he'd gotten rather good at pretending to eat dinner. Neither Mr. nor Mrs. Jones appeared at all suspicious, but evidently Ned was more observant than they were. Plus, he was the only one who ever saw Peter change clothes, so it made sense he noticed how slim Peter had become. None of his clothes were tight enough to reveal anything to observers unless they truly scrutinized him—which, of course, no one did, except for apparently Ned.

"I'm fine," Peter practically growled.

"No you're not," Ned insisted. "Tell me what's going on so I can help you."

"Nothing's going on," Peter assured.

"Don't lie to me!"

Peter startled at Ned's sudden outburst. He never got mad, at least not that Peter had ever seen. When confronted, he typically shrank into himself and surrendered. This was a completely new side of him that Peter immediately decided he hated. He didn't want Ned to be mad at him, but he also didn't want Ned to bring any attention to the fact that there was something wrong with Peter. If he told Mr. and Mrs. Jones, there was no telling how far down that rabbit hole Peter would tumble.

"Fine," Peter relented. "But you have to promise not to tell anybody."

"If you're hurting yourself, I can't just let that continue."

"I'm not, I promise. I promised that I'm okay, and you have to promise that you won't tell anyone about this." Ned paused, and for a moment Peter thought he would refuse, but he eventually gave in and promised to keep it a secret. "Okay, here goes." Peter swallowed, afraid to even gloss over what happened, but he had to tell Ned something to explain this or he wouldn't keep his promise. "I have a lot of…bad memories associated with food, okay? It's kinda part of why I ended up in foster care." Ned's face fell, but Peter refused to focus on that. "But I'm okay as long as I avoid the things that set me off, I swear. I can control it."

"You control what?"

"I used to get these weird episodes of, like, not being able to breathe right and feeling just as scared as when it happened in real life. They're terrible, so I try my best not to let them happen. That's why I need to be in control, okay?"

"Okay," Ned sighed, though he obviously didn't like it. "You're sure you're okay?"

"Yes. I promised, didn't I? And you promised not to tell. You'd better not break that promise."

"I won't," Ned swore.

"Good. Now, I'm gonna go to bed." Peter found the shirt he'd been looking for, threw it on, and climbed up to his top bunk. After he laid down under the covers, he ran a hand over his ribcage and tried to remember if he'd always been able to count them that easily.

~0~

Ned didn't mention the conversation again, but Peter noticed he scrutinized him during meals with a distressed look on his face. Hopefully, he'd keep his promise. Towards the end of the school year, Mr. Harrington stopped by to check on him and give him the "unfortunate news" that he and Ned were no closer to being adopted. Peter made sure to wear clothes that adequately disguised his build so Mr. Harrington wouldn't notice any difference after not seeing him for so long. The news didn't even disappoint him much; he was content to stay with the Jones for as long as they would have him. Ned agreed.

"What if we got adopted together?" Ned asked, his voice drifting up from the bottom bunk just after the two had climbed into bed for the night.

"That would be pretty cool," Peter admitted.

"We could be brothers for real. Or at least, legally."

"Yeah." Peter doubted that would ever happen, but it was cool to think about.

"It would be weird to explain to people that we're not twins," he added.

"Really?" Peter chuckled. "You don't think people will figure out that much for themselves given we look nothing alike?"

"I don't know man, people are pretty stupid."

"Well compared to you, maybe."

"You're one to talk, Mr. Super Genius."

"I think we both know the real genius is Michelle."

"That's facts," Ned conceded. "Good night Peter."

"Good night Ned.

~0~

Summer vacation was unlike anything Peter had ever lived through before. In the heart of the city, the heat made going outside almost unbearable, but out here there was a lot more shade and a lot more space. Almost every day he, Ned, and Michelle played outside in the Jones' yard. He missed school, but getting to spend so much quality time with them completely made up for it. Mr. and Mrs. Jones sat Peter and Ned down and discussed the possibility of going on vacation for a week. Peter didn't want to deprive them, so he kept his mouth shut despite wanting nothing less, while Ned was brave enough to voice his discomfort: "I'd rather stay here. This is the longest I've ever felt safe, and I don't want to change anything about it."

"Okay," they said understandingly. Instead of going to the beach or to the mountains, they each pitched ideas for 'staycation' activities like movie nights, board games, and even a water balloon fight. Once again, Peter and Ned tag teamed it to play Catan, and they actually won one or two of the twenty times they played that summer. Mr. Jones took home a victory, and Michelle easily won the rest.

Before he knew it, they started eighth grade. Peter was elated that some of the coursework was difficult enough to hold his attention. He thought to himself that this would be the best year ever, but then the Leeds showed up. Mr. Harrington brought them to meet Ned one weekend in late October. They were warm and kind and everything a foster kid wanted in prospective adopted parents, but Peter couldn't help but resent them for wanting to take Ned out of their little family.

He didn't let Ned know how he felt, of course. The kid was over the moon, raving about how awesome they were. "Did I tell you they're going to watch Star Wars tonight so next time they see me we can talk about it?" he asked, practically breathless from happiness.

"No," Peter replied. He was glad he was on the top bunk so Ned couldn't easily pop up and see him nearly crying.

"Well they are. I can't believe how lucky I am."

"So lucky," Peter echoed.

"I'm sure you'll get adopted soon too," Ned assured. "Michelle's going to be an only child again before she knows it."

She was, but not quite in the way any of them expected.


	8. Snap

The Leeds decided to formally adopt Ned. Peter was genuinely happy for him, but every time he thought about it he tasted jealousy at the back of his throat. Not only that, but they lived in _Arizona_ and would be moving back there as soon as they obtained legal custody. Peter was losing Ned as a brother and, possibly, as a friend. Ned swore that he'd do everything he could to keep in touch from so far away, but Peter still feared that he'd make so many new friends out there that he'd forget all about his former foster brother.

"Go play outside. It might be one of the last days this year when it's warm enough to do so," Mrs. Jones said. Ned and Michelle enthusiastically agreed, but Peter wasn't sure. It might not seem cold to them, but he was more sensitive to low temperatures than he used to be and while it was warm for November, it was still November. Not wanting to miss out, he threw on a jacket and followed his siblings out the front door.

Michelle, who snuck a paperback outside in her jacket, headed right up the tree in the front yard and tucked herself into a nook in the branches. Once she opened the book, Peter knew there was no chance of convincing her to play with them. Ned grabbed the ball they'd been playing with the other day and tossed it to Peter.

"What did you think of our science test yesterday?" Ned asked.

Peter shrugged and tossed the ball back. "It was pretty easy, I guess."

"Of course it would be for you; you're insanely smart."

"No I'm not," Peter insisted. Sure, he liked science and he was pretty good at it, but Ned wasn't far behind and he was way better than Peter at math. And Michelle could read circles around the both of them while also knowing seemingly everything about everything. She even watched the news every night—what thirteen-year-old did that?

"Yes, you are," Ned said. "Michelle, is Peter a literal genius?"

"Sure," she said without looking up.

"See, Peter? Michelle agrees with me."

"Fine. Whatever." Arguing with Ned was no use. He tossed the ball haphazardly and it lodged itself in the tree an arm's length above Michelle's head.

"Aw man," Ned sighed. "Michelle, do you think you could get that down for us?" She passive-aggressively turned the page and ignored them.

"I'll get it," Peter offered. He'd seen Michelle climb this tree so many times that he'd memorized her route up. He grabbed on to the lowest branch and walked up the trunk to get himself on top of the branch. That was the hardest part of the climb; the rest of the branches on the way up sat much closer together. However, the effort just to get here left Peter's arms exhausted. He leaned against the trunk and tried to rub some life back into them.

"You alright?" Ned asked from a few feet below.

"Yep," Peter assured. He grabbed for the next branch, but as soon as he trusted any weight to his arms they gave out on him. Funnily enough, he noticed Michelle's book hit the ground beside him before he recognized that he'd just plummeted from the tree. Then the pain struck.

"Peter!" Ned cried, racing to his side. Peter didn't speak, didn't cry, didn't so much as move. Ned did all three. "Are you okay?" he asked frantically. Peter took one look at his left arm and shook his head no. Arms weren't supposed to bend like that. Michelle's Converse entered his field of vision as she gracefully hopped down.

"Oh my God," she stated. "We need to tell Mom. Right now." Michelle reached down and helped Peter to his feet. The slight movement sent jolts of pain from his fingertips to his elbow, and he cradled the offending appendage to his chest in a futile attempt to steady it. Every step hurt, but he made it into the house without shedding a tear. He suspected he was in shock. This felt exactly like the aftermath of the grocery store shooting.

"What's the matter?" Mrs. Jones asked upon seeing the terrified expressions on the kids' faces.

"Peter fell out of the tree," Michelle explained with remarkable composure.

"Oh no. Let me see." She sat Peter down at the kitchen table and looked over the already-swollen limb. "Michelle, go grab an ice pack from the freezer and a towel. Ned, get a pillow from the closet. We're going to the ER."

Peter sat frozen at the table while the others bustled about. He stared in morbid fascination at his arm, afraid to so much as wiggle his fingers. In the blink of an eye, he was sandwiched between Ned and Michelle in the backseat of Mrs. Jones' car. His arm lay on a pillow in his lap, the ice just taking the edge off the pain. In the ER, they temporarily splinted it and gave him painkillers while he waited for x-rays. Mrs. Jones called Mr. Jones to tell him what happened, and he joined them within half an hour. When they asked him how it happened, Peter merely shook his head and deferred to Ned and Michelle. He'd been too shocked to remember it properly, and he wasn't even certain he hadn't passed out right before he fell.

They had him move his arm into different positions for the x-rays, which hurt, but Peter silently obeyed. There was no doubt in his mind it was broken, but exactly where and how badly remained to be seen. The person looking at his scans whispered to the technician beside her, "I think we need to report this to Child Protective Services." Peter knew he wasn't supposed to hear that. Why on Earth did they think they needed to report this? Kids fell out of trees all the time. Nobody had done anything wrong.

Back in the exam room, they asked again how it happened. Mrs. Jones began to answer, but the nurse interrupted her. "I'd like to hear the story from Peter." She looked at him expectantly. In fact, every gaze in the room fell to Peter and he froze up under the scrutiny. The way Ned and Mrs. Jones explained it was true, why did they need Peter to tell it again? He opened his mouth, but his vocal cords refused to cooperate. It was as if the weight of the situation had constricted his throat to the point where he couldn't physically produce words.

"Peter? It's alright, you can tell me," the nurse encouraged. Peter shook his head forlornly. "How about I have everyone step out for a moment so it's just the two of us?" At that suggestion, Peter shook his head so frantically that it jostled his broken arm. He didn't want to be alone with this stranger. His foster family's presence might be the only thing keeping him from completely freaking out in this place that terrified him so much.

"Peter, you can tell her," Mrs. Jones said.

"I'd rather you not intervene at this time, Mrs. Jones," the nurse said.

"Oh, sorry."

The nurse glanced between Peter, Mrs. Jones, and the paperwork. "You and your husband are his foster parents, correct?"

"Yes."

"How long has he been under your legal guardianship?"

"Just under a year."

"Okay. Does he have a history of mutism?"

"Not that I know of," Mrs. Jones said. "He was quiet the first few days with us, but after that he talked normally. I don't know what's gotten into him. I think he's just afraid and hurting."

Peter wholly agreed with her assessment, but his inability to find his voice amplified that fear. He didn't know what was wrong with himself, and he didn't know why everyone who treated him seemed suspicious of Mr. and Mrs. Jones, and it all added up to a pretty terrifying situation.

It only grew more terrifying when they sent his entire foster family away to talk with some official-looking people, leaving Peter completely alone with the nurse and another new person.

"Peter, you can talk to us, it's alright," the nurse assured. "You're not going to get in trouble for anything you say." That only confused Peter more. Why would he get in trouble for talking? He just wanted them to fix his arm so he could go home. Evidently, they had other plans. When Peter still didn't talk, she rephrased her question. "Is the story Mrs. Jones told true? Did you fall out of a tree?" Peter nodded.

"Okay." Whether she believed him or not, Peter couldn't tell, but she continued to explain that they were going to fully examine him just to make sure of a few things. They went through the routine Peter recognized from yearly check-ups at the doctor, but then they took blood, which he was _not_ happy about. Even worse, it took her three tries to get a needle into his vein. After that, every time she tried to meet his gaze, Peter glared daggers. He didn't like people who repeatedly stabbed him with needles and took away his family. They eventually left him alone and Peter's thoughts spiraled. Where did they take Mr. and Mrs. Jones? Why hadn't they let them come back to see him? They weren't his real parents, but they were his legal guardians and the closest thing to family he had. Peter just wanted somebody to explain what the hell was going on.

The nurse did come back, but she didn't bring any of Peter's family back with her. She only brought more questions, questions that shook Peter to the core. "Peter," she began, so sweet and kind it was almost patronizing. "Your brother Ned told us that you haven't been eating. Is that true?"

Peter glared furiously. He'd made Ned promise not to tell anybody, yet he'd clearly just blabbed to these people. Now this nurse sat here sticking her nose in Peter's business.

"Is that true?" she repeated. Peter refused to comment or even shake his head. He'd been so careful, so precise in his behavior around food, for the sole purpose of disguising his brokenness for fear the Jones would send him away. Now they knew, and all his efforts were rendered pointless. They found him out, and the Jones didn't want him anymore. That must be why they hadn't come back for him.

When he continued to not respond, she answered for him. "Based on your weight and some imbalances we found in your blood, it looks like you're not getting proper nutrition. We're going to keep you here until we can figure out what's going on, okay?"

No. Not okay. The only thing that could possibly make this worse was staying here in this place any longer than absolutely necessary. This wasn't the same hospital, but everything here reminded him of his last days with May. She stayed, and she died. Peter did not want to stay.

"Once the orthopedist casts your arm, we're going to show you to your room, okay?"

Peter shook his head vehemently. Evidently, what he wanted didn't matter in this situation. Then again, did what he wanted ever matter?

He did get to choose the color of his cast at least. They showed him his options and he pointed to red. Because of where the break was, they immobilized him from wrist to elbow and outfitted him with a sling to keep it elevated. Possibly the only upside in this situation was that his dominant hand remained free. To complete the ensemble, his free wrist was adorned with a patient ID bracelet with his name, birthday, and other information. Even as they transferred him to his new room, he didn't get to see the Jones. Peter wanted to ask where they were, but he couldn't muster the courage to speak up. With no available information to tell him otherwise, he concluded that they wanted nothing to do with him now that they knew his secret. They must have hightailed it out of here with their two normal children at the first opportunity.

The first visitors to his new room were a Dr. van Dyne and a Dr. Wilson. They both smiled a lot and seemed nice, but he read their badges to see who they were. An eating disorder specialist and a psychiatrist. Peter didn't understand why any of this was necessary. His mind was in perfect working order, not that anybody here paid enough attention to him to realize that. If he was acting pathologically, it was only because he was trapped in a place that looked just like the one where his aunt—his last living relative—died a horrible death. He had every right to be a little jittery.

"Peter, do you know why you're here?" Dr. Wilson asked. In answer, Peter lifted his casted arm slightly. "Well, yes, but do you know why we're keeping you here? Why Dr. van Dyne and I were brought in to help?"

He knew. Peter knew that they thought something was wrong in his head and that's why they sent a psychiatrist, but he didn't agree with their assessment. If he could just go home to the Jones, somewhere familiar and safe, he'd be fine. But, he reminded himself, the Jones didn't want him anymore. They only people who wanted him around were these hospital people who got paid to fix what was wrong with him. They ought to focus their efforts elsewhere, because the only thing that could fix Peter was bringing back Ben and May. Not even the best doctors in the world could do that.

"Peter, we want you to understand that we're here to help. We can only do that if you answer our questions. Do you think you can do that?"

Genuinely, Peter shook his head no. Every time he'd attempted to open his mouth since arriving here, any words he'd intended to speak jammed in his throat. He also could foresee exactly what a conversation with a psychiatrist would lead to. If he started talking, eventually the conversation would reach topics like Aunt May's death and the grocery store shooting, and Peter had absolutely no desire to ever relive either of those events.

"That's okay," Dr. van Dyne assured. "How about we stick to just yes or no questions, does that sound good?"

Peter nodded, though he wouldn't meet either doctor's gaze.

"Great. Let's start with some easy ones. Your foster family says you broke your arm falling from a tree. Is that true?"

Yes.

"Were you climbing the tree to get away from something?"

No.

"Was it just for fun?"

No.

"Were you trying to get something out of the tree?"

Yes.

"I see. You climbed up to get it and slipped on the way."

Yes.

"Do you think maybe you fell because you lost consciousness?"

Shrug.

"Do you know what that means?"

Yes.

"Okay. So you're not sure if you passed out. Is that possible?"

Yes.

"Had you eaten anything that day before you climbed the tree?"

No.

"Did the other kids in your family eat before you were all outside?"

Yes.

"Does that happen often, your siblings eating when you don't?"

Peter didn't answer because he finally put it together. The people here thought the Jones neglected him. He couldn't let them think that, but he couldn't conjure the words to correct them. Instead, he just stared solemnly into space.

"Peter, answer the question," Dr. Wilson prompted. He stared at Peter so intently that he could feel it almost like a laser. Peter faked fascination with his cast and ignored them. They got the message that Peter was done talking, but instead of giving up, they moved on. Someone brought in an assortment of food on a tray and set it down on his bedside table. The onset of the fear was instantaneous.

Peter's vision crackled and spiraled and he lost all control of his breathing pattern. Numbness started in his fingertips and worked its way up to his elbows. The doctors' voices called out to him, but they faded into the background of a cacophony of gunshots, screaming, retching, and alarms. Peter tried to curl in on himself, but his stupid arm encased in plaster couldn't properly wrap around his knees.

"Peter, you're not in danger. Just breathe with me," Dr. Wilson encouraged. Peter tried, he really tried, but he couldn't force himself to focus on anything. Time crawled and by the time Peter no longer felt like he was going to pass out and die he had no idea how long the episode had lasted. Dr. Wilson was there, assuring him he was fine, and gradually the haze faded.

"You with us, Peter?"

He nodded.

"Has something like this happened before?"

Yes.

"More than once?"

Yes.

"Have you ever told anyone or gotten help?"

No.

"We can help you. Do you want us to do that?"

Peter didn't know how they could manage that without wiping his memory, but he had nothing to lose. He weakly nodded his head yes.

"Okay," Dr. Wilson said with a warm smile. He and Dr. van Dyne left, but another nurse remained in the room, who introduced himself as Happy. Peter's lip curled up ever so slightly at hearing such a silly name. He offered Peter a cup of water, which he gratefully accepted.

Peter didn't know what form Dr. Wilson's proposed help would take or when he'd start, but he certainly didn't expect to be stuck with another needle and peppered with heart monitor leads. They encased his free arm in a blood pressure cuff, and between that, the IV, and his cast, Peter felt like he couldn't safely move anything. Happy shot something into the line and after a bit Peter started to feel loopy. It was both relaxing and disconcerting at the same time.

What did not relax him was watching Happy and another nurse prepare some sort of tube. Peter was alert enough to know he wasn't going to like what came next, even dosed up with whatever medicine they'd given him.

Happy explained what they were doing as the other nurse, Heimdall, guided Peter to sit up and slightly forward, but none of it stuck in Peter's head until Happy started poking around his nostrils. Peter tried to lean away, but he couldn't exactly go far with Happy right in front of him and Heimdall to his right.

"Peter, I need you to hold still for me," Happy prompted. "I know this isn't fun, but it's necessary." Peter didn't want to be problematic, but he also _really_ didn't want anything shoved up his nose, and that was clearly what Happy intended to do. Heimdall stuck a straw into a glass of water and held it at the ready while Happy introduced the end of the tube to Peter's nose. Steady pain erupted in his face as Happy pushed the tube onward. As a kid, Peter had been taught never to put anything in his nostrils, and now he understood why. The inside of his face did not enjoy a foreign object working its way deeper into his head.

Peter tried to reject it, but Happy was stronger. Heimdall pressed the straw towards him just as the tube reached somewhere it definitely wasn't supposed to be. The urge to gag and cough it up was so strong that Peter felt his entire throat and face contract.

"Come on, drink and swallow," Heimdall instructed gently. "You can do it."

But he couldn't, he just _couldn't_. He tried to push Happy away, but his one good arm was useless against a full-grown, sturdy man. His throat constricted painfully and he wriggled, but Heimdall held him steady with the arm not holding the cup.

"We're so close to being done," Happy promised. "But, Peter, you need to stop fighting it. You've got to swallow."

Peter steeled himself and sipped from the straw as much as he dared. Something gave, and Happy continued to advance the tube. Peter kept drinking because it gave him something to do other than think about what was happening.

"All done," Happy announced. "You did great."

Peter disagreed—nothing about that experience could ever be described as great—but he didn't argue. He just sat, pliant and miserable, as Happy marked the tube just where it entered his nose, then taped it to his cheek. Peter had expected to react even worse to the procedure, but whatever they'd dosed him up with quieted his bad thoughts enough that they didn't bother him quite so much.

Peter didn't know what time it was, but it had been the longest of long days and he wanted nothing more than to curl up and go to bed. But the tube was a constant presence in his throat, like a spaghetti noodle stuck longways, and he doubted he could draw his focus far enough away from it to fall asleep. Then, Happy prepared some strange looking mixture and strung it up on the pole beside whatever was flowing into Peter's veins. Peter didn't think that much of it until Happy connected it to the tube in his face and he realized whatever that was was headed towards his stomach. But he had no idea what it _was_ and the mere thought of something unknown entering his system like that scared him enough for the bad thoughts to surge despite the meds. Peter wanted to call out for Happy to stop—to demand to be left alone—but no sounds would come. Instead, nervous tears silently fell, those from his right eye dampening the tape securing the tube. Happy didn't notice until he finished adjusting the settings on the pump.

"Oh Peter, you're alright," Happy soothed. The platitude only made the tears fall faster. The nurse sat down on the bed beside him and gathered Peter in his arms, rocking him gently back and forth. This motion should be reserved for babies and anxious dogs, but Peter couldn't deny it felt good. His arm throbbed, his nose ached, and his head was a nauseating combination of dizzy and nervous and terrified, but Happy's presence was warm and he smelled vaguely like a memory of Peter's dad. Eyelids growing heavy, Peter began to dream about his father's face before he even dozed off.


	9. Keeping Company

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are now entering the Gravesen era of this story. Who's excited?

When he woke up, he was full. The sensation was completely alien and more than a little unwelcome. He'd grown so used to the hollowness that anything else drew his attention, and he hated paying attention to his stomach. The only other thing prominent enough to distract him was the tube, which someone must have disconnected from the pole while he slept. Whoever it was also removed his sling and left his arm resting on a pillow on his chest. Based on the lighting, Peter guessed it was early morning, but he didn't know exactly what time. Peter didn't really know what to do since he was still connected to a bunch of things, but he only thought about it a few minutes before Happy bustled in, looking for all the world like his namesake adjective.

"Good morning," he greeted warmly. Peter only watched him cautiously as he went about looking at monitors and writing things down. "How are you feeling?" he asked. In answer, Peter glowered and wrapped his good arm around his aching stomach. Happy watched him and sighed in sympathy. "I know it can be a little rough to get back on track, but I promise we're doing it safely. You're in good hands."

Peter wanted to trust Happy, he really did, but this whole place reeked of terrible memories. They'd told him that May was in good hands in that exact same tone, and she died. He had no reason to believe his case would be any different. He wanted out of here, but he sensed that wouldn't be happening anytime soon.

"How's your arm?" Happy asked now sitting so he could meet Peter's eye. Well, he could if Peter didn't purposefully avoid meeting his gaze. "Can you show me on your fingers a scale of one to ten how bad it hurts?"

Peter hadn't even thought about his arm what with the more pressing issue of _something other than water_ in his stomach, but now that Happy asked he realized it throbbed. Staring down at his uncasted arm, he slowly put up one finger at a time until he reached five.

"Do you want me to give you something to help it?"

Peter shook his head no. What he really wanted was to go to the bathroom, but he couldn't bring himself to ask. His voice remained locked up, and Peter had no idea how to bring it back.

"That's okay, but will you let me know if you change your mind?"

Peter didn't know how he would go about that, but he nodded anyway. Happy used the IV in his arm to take another blood sample, then helped Peter reaffix his sling so he could be weighed. Standing up increased the urgency of his need to pee and Peter hoped Happy would notice him walking funny and show him the way.

"Do you need to use the bathroom?" Happy finally asked after he recorded Peter's weight. Peter sagged with relief and nodded emphatically. He showed Peter to one of the bathrooms on the ward, shared between four rooms, all of which were currently unoccupied except for Peter's. Figuring it out with one hand took some time, but Peter managed without incident. When he finished, Happy took him back to his room and outlined the day. Mr. Harrington was coming to drop off his stuff and he was bringing Ned to say goodbye before he went home with his forever family. Peter wondered why he didn't mention the Jones, but he suspected it might have something to do with their suspicion of neglect. He wanted to see the Jones and apologize for imposing and stressing them out with all his problems, but he doubted he could make his voice work even for them. Before that, he'd see Drs. van Dyne and Wilson again. Peter didn't know what they planned to do if he couldn't talk to them, but he went along with it.

They sent him to Dr. Wilson first. Happy led Peter to his office, which contained an array of comfortable seating and a table filled with colorful fidget toys of all shapes and sizes. Peter hesitantly sat down in one of the chairs and grabbed a Rubik's cube off the table. He and Uncle Ben had once spent an entire weekend learning how to solve one, and Peter spent weeks after that scrambling and solving it and scrambling it again. He worked with it so much that some of the stickers started to peel off. This one didn't have peeling stickers; the sections themselves were colored, and it slid much more easily and quietly than Peter's old cube. Before Dr. Wilson even said, "Good morning," he'd solved it. "You're pretty good at that. Most people that come in here just scramble it around to have something to do with their hands."

Peter didn't reply, just scrambled it again. It was difficult to manipulate without free use of both of his hands, but attempting to do so gave him something to focus on other than the expectation of Dr. Wilson's interrogation. He knew enough to understand what a visit to a psychiatrist's office entailed, and he wanted nothing to do with any of it.

"So Peter, before we get started, I'd like to get to know you a little better," Dr. Wilson began. Peter kept his eyes fixed on the cube and didn't respond. There wasn't much to know about him that he couldn't find out by asking Mr. Harrington to look at his case file. "I know you know my name already, but you can call me Falcon if you want. Over the years the patients here gave me that nickname and I think it sounds pretty cool, so I kept it." Peter knew he was gunning for a reaction from him, most likely a smile, but he offered the psychiatrist nothing. Maybe if he proved resistant enough to talk therapy they'd stop trying. He solved the Rubik's cube again and scrambled it even more this time.

"Do you feel up to talking today?" he asked earnestly. It was a yes or no question, something Dr. Wilson had seen Peter answer yesterday, so he probably expected at least that much of a response. In the hopes that saying so would end this session here and now, Peter shook his head no.

"That's okay." He sounded reassuring, but Peter couldn't help but think he was disappointed in Peter for making his job that much more difficult. However, if he gave Peter what he really wanted and left him alone, Dr. Wilson's job would be super easy, so he didn't feel that bad about it. "If I ask you some more yes or no questions, do you think you could at least answer those?"

Peter shrugged. It depended on the kind of question he asked.

"Okay, that's good. I can work with that. So, Peter, I know yesterday was a really difficult day for you. Did you sleep last night?"

He nodded. Peter was glad he'd managed to fall asleep, because laying awake all night thinking about the substance dripping into his stomach through his nose was not an enticing notion. Dr. Wilson droned on for a long time with 'getting to know you' questions. Peter was glad to answer them because it meant he wasn't asking about any touchy topics, but he was growing bored. He looked for a clock in the office and found on the wall to his left and stared at it, wishing he knew how long this session was supposed to last so he could count down the minutes until it ended. In school, Peter used to do that during boring classes, but in science he would look at the clock and despair how little time they had left to discuss his favorite subject before he had to move on with his day.

Much to his surprise and delight, Dr. Wilson called it quits before he even came close to touching on the reason for Peter's food-related fears. However, he had to face Dr. van Dyne immediately afterwards. She spoke to him with the same professional warmth as Dr. Wilson but spent much less time trying to build rapport with him.

"Have you ever learned about nutrition in school?" she asked. Peter shook his head, prompting her to give him a mini lesson on food groups and calories and all that jazz. On a fundamental level, Peter understood this information, but he understood it in a logical part of his brain. Whatever part of his brain that housed his fear always won, and Peter could do nothing to stop it. Dr. van Dyne outlined the goals she set for him and explained one thing very clearly, "We will continue to feed you through the tube until you can meet these goals on your own."

Peter had never been so daunted by anything in his entire life. He'd only had one tube feed and he hated it with as much ardor as he'd ever hated anything, but the only thing he could do to stop it was the one thing he hated just as much. It was an impossible dilemma. Involuntary tears slipped down his cheeks with the realization of just what it would take to get out of this place.

"Oh, Peter, it's gonna be okay. I promise. Can I hug you?" Dr. van Dyne asked genuinely. Peter paused, but ultimately nodded. Cautious of his cast, she wrapped her arms around him and continued, "I know it's a lot and right now it looks like the hardest thing in the world, but I promise you'll get there. I'm not going to stop working until you get there. Until then, Dr. Wilson, your nurses, and I will be here to help you every step of the way."

That was nice and all, but the people Peter really wanted to be with him weren't here anymore. Even Ned, his brother and best friend, would be leaving for Arizona. Peter didn't think he could ever feel more alone than he had right after May died, when he morphed from beloved nephew to just another kid on Mr. Harrington's list of kids to find homes for, but somehow this was worse. Everyone here kept telling him they were here to help, but none of them could figure out that the best way to help him was just to let him go home. But now that the Jones seemed to be out of the picture entirely, Peter wasn't even sure where that was.

Mr. Harrington's arrival at Gravesen only solidified Peter's worries that he had no place in the world anywhere but here. He brought Ned with him, probably so he could send him off with his new family right after this chore was taken care of. Ned stared at him, mouth agape. Peter stared at his feet, overwhelmed with a combination of shame and resentment. It was Ned's confession of Peter's not eating that led them to imprison him here, and Peter couldn't just forgive him for that. He'd promised he wouldn't tell, and when it mattered most he'd broken that vow.

"Peter?" Ned whispered. Slowly, he offered Peter's stuffed Chewbacca as reconciliation, no doubt sensing Peter's anger towards him. Peter looked up long enough to snatch the plush from Ned's hand, then returned his gaze to the floor, clutching Chewy to his chest with his good arm.

"Peter might not be up to talking right now," Mr. Harrington said, placing a hand on Ned's shoulder. "Why don't we bring in his things and give him some space, okay?"

"Okay," Ned sighed dejectedly. Peter didn't own much. More than Ned, but certainly less than most kids his age. He watched passively, hugging Chewy, as Ned and Mr. Harrington brought in all of it. They left nothing of his behind at the Jones' house. If someone visited there, they would find no indication that Peter had ever lived there. Now he understood that no matter what happened to him here, he would never return to the Jones. They'd probably find him a new foster family if he ever got out of here. Peter didn't know when or if that would happen.

Ned must have moved out of their shared room too, now that he was heading to Arizona to be with his new family. Peter would much rather have moved out for that reason than this one. He wondered if Mr. and Mrs. Jones would take in new foster kids now that both Peter and Ned were gone. Would Michelle get along with them as well as she had with the two of them? A selfish part of Peter hoped not. But the rest of him just wanted her to be happy.

When Ned placed their LEGO Death Star on the bedside table, Peter audibly gasped. Ned couldn't leave this behind! It was the first and best gift he'd ever received; he needed to keep it with him. "I want you to have it so you don't forget me," Ned explained. "And so you can look at it and think of good times when things are bad…kind of like they are now."

Peter gazed back at his brother and some of the hostility melted out of him.

"I'm sorry I broke my promise, but I had to! They told Mr. and Mrs. Jones all these things that were wrong with you and it was so scary. The way they were talking, it sounded like you might die and I couldn't keep quiet when I knew what was causing it. Can you forgive me?" he asked pleadingly.

Peter wanted to. He knew he should, but he had so few people left in his life he could trust and Ned had been one of those people. If it weren't for him, Peter might not be trapped here with people who wanted to force him to eat and talk, two things that he'd never felt less capable of in his entire life. He might have been able to go home with the Jones, back to his only remaining safe space.

He managed to meet Ned's gaze, but he said nothing.

"Peter, please! At least say something."

Any words he would have said got lost in transit from his brain to his vocal cords, and silence remained.

"Okay," Ned sighed, accepted that no amount of begging would get Peter to open up. "Even if you won't talk back, can I at least FaceTime you every once in a while, so I can see that you're okay?"

Peter didn't feel okay, and he knew he certainly didn't look it, but he knew by "okay" Ned probably meant "alive." Despite his anger, Peter didn't want Ned to slip out of his life completely. Once it was clear Ned's adoption would go through, they'd promised not to let each other lose touch. One broken promise was enough. Peter wouldn't be the one who added a second to mar their friendship. So he nodded, accepting Ned's proposition.

"Good," Ned said. His tone grew more solemn as he continued. "I know you don't want to be here, and I'm really sorry, but try to let them help you? I just want you to get better."

Peter didn't reply, nor did he accept Ned's invitation to do their handshake one last time. Ned dropped his gaze, and Mr. Harrington led him out. Peter wished he'd been strong enough to at least mutter a goodbye.

~0~

Peter purposefully got lost on the way back from the bathroom and ended up in a room full of comfy couches with a TV larger than any he'd ever watched on. He figured this must be a recreation room of sorts for the patients who lived here. As much as he hated this place, he had to give them credit for stocking entertainment. There were cabinets full of toys for kids of all ages and a closet with every board game Peter had ever heard of, and some he hadn't. He knelt down to open the cabinets below the TV, hoping he'd find DVDs in there and that said DVD collection would include Star Wars, when he heard the door open and footsteps walk in.

"So the rumors are true! I have a neighbor now." Peter turned around and found a short-haired girl a few years his senior standing in the doorway with her hands on her hips. She smiled, and the expression conveyed a combination of welcoming, pride, and excitement. "And by rumors I mean my own guesswork based on how little attention I've been receiving lately," she remarked jokingly. "What's your name?"

Peter opened his mouth to answer a question he'd probably answered hundreds of times. Aunt May and Uncle Ben used to remind him that his first words ever had been his own name. He should be able to say this in his sleep, but no words came out. Frustrated, he held out his wrist for her to read the name off his ID. Unfazed by his silence, the girl scanned the bracelet and greeted, "Hey Peter Parker. I'm Carol Danvers, it's nice to meet you. I'm sorry you're here, but I won't lie and say I'm not glad to finally have some company."

Peter managed a smile. Having someone around his own age here might make things a little more bearable, and Carol seemed like the type of person who knew how to have fun. "So, what's your deal?" she asked flippantly, settling on the arm of a chair. He gazed back at her completely straight-faced, waiting for her to figure it out from the rather obvious clues displayed on his person. She scrutinized him. "Cancer?" Peter shook his head. That might be the only thing that could suck worse than his actual circumstances. "CF?" He didn't even know what that was, so he frowned and cocked his head in confusion. "It's a chronic lung disease. One of my friends that has it lives here sometimes," Carol explained. "He's not admitted right now, but he comes to visit once or twice a week. Are you an eating disorder patient?"

Peter shrugged. That's what the hospital probably classified him as, given they sent him to Dr. van Dyne who specialized in that sort of thing, but he didn't think that of himself. They'd learned about eating disorders in middle school health class; more often than not, they were caused by distorted body image and an unquenchable need to be skinnier. Peter certainly didn't want to be skinnier; he just wanted to minimize the terror he felt around food as much as he possibly could.

"Well, I'm a heart patient," Carol continued. "In case you were wondering." She paused. "This whole not talking thing…is it part of why you're here?" Peter shrugged again. Maybe Dr. Wilson considered him losing his voice another layer of psychological trauma he needed to unwrap. "Okay. What DVD are you looking for? I've been meaning to alphabetize them, but every time I go to do it I remember how much I really don't want to." That comment made Peter audibly laugh. He decided then that a more productive use of his time than watching Star Wars would be alphabetizing these DVDs so Carol didn't have to. Peter started pulling them all out of the cabinet and laying them out across the floor. Carol descended from her perch on the chair arm and observed him for a few moments before she recognized what task he had in mind. "Thank you. Doing it with company won't be nearly as unbearable."

They worked together seamlessly, Peter automatically assuming the second half of the alphabet while Carol took on the first. When they encountered a title that belonged in the other half, they handed it off without a word. Peter had never cooperated with anyone this well except for maybe Ned and Michelle, but it had taken them a few weeks of living together to get to that level. Carol kept up a running commentary, occasionally asking Peter a question that he could answer with a nod or shake of his head. Here in this room with Carol, he could almost forget he was in a hospital, and for the first time since arriving here he felt himself truly relax.

~0~

The next few days proceeded much the same. Peter learned something very important from Dr. Wilson: the terrifying, not-breathing, numb-hands episodes were called panic attacks, and there were techniques to help get through them. Why didn't they lead with that? It was the most helpful thing Peter had ever learned, especially since being fed through the tube still made him cry and gave him miniature panic attacks every single time.

Less than a week after Peter moved in here, another boy moved in down the hall. Peter heard him screaming in pain at one point, a cruel reminder of why he hated places like this. He didn't see him, but Carol seemed distressed by his arrival, more so than Peter expected. She hadn't seemed distressed by his arrival, so what was it about this boy that upset her? While Peter sat in his room pondering this, a knock at his door startled him out of his deep thoughts.

It couldn't be time for bloodwork again, could it? They'd stuck him so many times he couldn't keep track of their schedule. Whoever it was didn't just waltz in, so Peter figured it wasn't a nurse. They worked around his not-talking and didn't wait for verbal acknowledgement before coming in. Whoever it was knocked again, so Peter stood and opened the door himself.

A boy a year or two his senior stood in the doorway. He didn't wear a patient ID bracelet like Peter's, but he did wear oxygen, which was confusing. Was he a patient or not? "Hi," the boy began. "I noticed you just moved in and I wanted to welcome you. I'm Steve."

Peter just stared, which seemed to faze him a little.

"Would you like me to show you around? I spend a lot of time here, so I know it well."

This time, Peter nodded. He followed Steve around the ward as he showed him the classroom, kitchen—fortunately without opening anything in there—and common room. Steve tried to make conversation for the first few minutes but soon realized he would never get a response beyond a nod, shrug, or shake of the head. Instead, he just kept up a commentary that Peter listened to intently.

"I'm not technically a patient right now, I'm just here visiting my friend Bucky over in room 1216. But it's only a matter of time before I get another lung infection and have to come in. I think Clint's coming back for more treatment sometime soon. And, of course, Carol's here, who you've already met. She's great. It's also likely that some more new patients will move in, so you won't be lonely." Here, Steve paused and glanced at Peter unsurely. "But if you prefer being alone, you can stay in your room as much as you like. Whatever floats your boat."

Peter smiled. They arrived back at his room, but Steve seemed reluctant to end the tour. "Can you at least tell me your name?" he asked. Peter held out his unsplinted arm with its ID. Steve took his wrist gently and twisted the bracelet until he could read the name. "Peter. Well, it was nice to meet you, Peter. If you need anything, we'll be more than happy to help."

Peter nodded and silently watched Steve return to room 1216 down the hall. He was glad to have people like that around. Nobody could replace Ned and Michelle, but having some nice kids around his age was better than nothing. Even if he didn't talk to them he could enjoy their company.


	10. Victory Bite

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, so...remember the video of Carol that Bucky showed Steve at the end of his prequel? Were any of you wondering exactly what happened? You're in luck, because this is the chapter where you get to find out! Genuinely, this chapter might be the most I've ever laughed while writing fanfiction. Enjoy :)

That night, Ned called him. At first, Peter was reluctant to answer, knowing his foster brother probably expected him to be healed enough to have regained his voice, but he did want to see a familiar face after a long day. He answered, and Ned popped up on his screen, visibly bursting with excitement. "Hey Peter," he greeted, pausing long enough for Peter to say hi back. His enthusiasm dimmed a little when he realized Peter wouldn't reply, but he plowed forward resiliently. "Are you doing okay?"

Peter didn't nod or shake his head. The answer to that question was far too complicated to convey in a simple yes or no. His lack of answer evidently saddened Ned, but he bounced back. "Have you met any new people your age? Friends?" This time, Peter did nod. He'd met Carol and Steve, both of whom treated him with kindness despite his lack of reciprocity. "That's good," Ned said. "I started school out here and met some cool people. But none of them are quite as cool as you." At this, Peter managed a smile.

"I talked to Michelle the other day. She misses us. You especially."

Peter didn't exactly know what to think of that. She hadn't tried to contact him since he'd been taken away, but maybe she wasn't allowed to. He hadn't tried to reach her either. Maybe because he was afraid of what she might say.

"I miss having siblings," Ned continued. "My parents—wow it still feels so weird to say that—they don't want another kid. I guess I'm glad I get all their attention, but it was nice to have someone my age around all the time." Ned paused as if waiting for Peter to affirm what he said. The kid was nothing if not persistent. He proceeded to rehash his entire week in detail for nearly half an hour while Peter merely listened and nodded along. Eventually, he ran out of things to say and they bid each other goodbye. Peter set down his phone and fell asleep, dreaming of building LEGOs and playing Catan with Ned and Michelle.

Every day he visited with Dr. Wilson, and most days with Dr. van Dyne also. They stopped expecting him to respond verbally after a while, and they redirected their lines of questioning to include only yes and no. Sometimes Peter dared to answer, but often he just sat on the sofa with his knees tucked up to his chest, playing absent-mindedly with one of the fidget toys from the table. If they were frustrated by his lack of willingness to participate, they didn't show it. A part of Peter secretly hoped that they'd give up and just let him be, but he knew they legally couldn't do that. He was stuck here until they screwed on his head straight, and then he'd be shipped off somewhere else. Maybe he was determined not to improve because he knew it would mean relocating again. Yes, Peter hated hospitals, but when he wasn't in session this place wasn't so bad. The company was certainly unbeatable.

~0~

It was a Saturday, so Steve was here. Peter liked when Steve visited because it made Carol happy. Not that she was generally unhappy—in fact, the opposite was true—but she livened up even more when Steve was around. They usually just chatted or played games, but today they'd flipped on the TV and half paid attention to some inane game show while they caught up on the events of the past week. Peter listened more closely to their conversation than the TV, smiling to himself every time they teased one another.

Peter learned a lot as a silent observer as opposed to an active participant in conversation. Sometimes Carol and Steve forgot he was even there and slipped into an easy, natural dynamic reminiscent of siblings. It made Peter miss Michelle. Carol reminded him of Michelle in a lot of ways, but she was more of a big sister to him than a peer.

"I'm serious, painting is so hard," Steve complained. "Give me a pencil and I can work wonders, but give me a brush and I'm basically a toddler with fingerpaints."

"I don't believe you," Carol countered. "I'll bet toddler Steve with fingerpaints still created masterpieces worthy of the Met."

"Not exactly."

Peter agreed with Carol; he'd seen Steve's art and it was amazing. He found it hard to believe Steve could struggle with any medium.

"I'm gonna need to see proof of your ineptitude," Carol said.

"I'll send you a picture when I finish my project. Hopefully my teacher won't fail me."

"I doubt you've ever even come close to failing."

"Well, I missed two months of school in sixth grade when the side effects of a new drug practically paralyzed me. That's the closest I've ever come to failing."

"Medially excused absence doesn't count."

"Whatever. What about you, Peter? How do you like the Ancient One's class?" Steve asked. Peter shrugged. He found the lessons way too easy for him. His thoughts drifted to how much he'd loved science classed with Ned, and that almost distracted him enough to prevent him noticing the ad that came on TV. Peter couldn't tell what they were selling, but he definitely noticed the imagery of a grocery store pop up. He willed the panic to subside, but he didn't stand a chance.

Reflexively, he dove toward the first thing he thought might offer him some semblance of comfort and safety. Which happened to be Carol. She startled at the impact, but allowed him to burrow into her side.

"Whoa, Parker, you alright?" she questioned. Peter could feel the concern radiating off of her through the haze of terror. She looked to Steve. "What do I do?"

"I don't know. I get asthma attacks, not anxiety attacks."

"Go get Happy or somebody."

"Okay." Steve stood and headed out of the common room while Peter's breath hitched even worse and he latched on tighter to Carol. She ran a hand up and down his back and tried to calm him.

"It's okay, Peter, just breathe, okay?" she said. He tried to listen and match his respiratory rate to hers, but it was just so _hard_ to get through to his body at times like this. It was as if his conscious brain got cut off from the rest of his body and the only message that could get through was "Danger! Danger!"

"No, I don't know what caused it," Steve explained as he followed Happy back inside. "We were just talking about painting and school and he started panicking."

"Okay. We can try to help him calm down, but he really just needs time," Happy said. He knelt down in front of the couch and muttered, "Peter, you're safe. You're in the common room with Carol and Steve. Can you feel her breathing? Try to match her, okay? In for four, out for four."

He could feel Carol following Happy's instructions and tried to bully his chest into complying. Eventually—he didn't know how long it took—but eventually he started to settle into a less panicked state. By the time he detached himself from Carol, he felt completely exhausted, but no longer frantic.

"You alright?" Carol asked.

Peter nodded.

"Because you kinda scared me there."

He looked apologetically at the floor and knocked his fingernails against his cast. "Is there anything we can do to help?" Steve questioned. Peter sighed and shook his head. If there was a technique that could help him bounce back to normal more quickly after a panic attack, he hadn't found it yet. Steve and Carol exchanged a glance, and then they settled right back into what they'd been doing before, paying Peter no mind. For a moment, he was startled that they'd suddenly ignored him after focusing all their attention on him for the past several minutes, but then he realized that was their goal. They didn't want him to feel scrutinized. Peter found it actually helped. He relaxed into the couch and let their conversation calm him.

~0~

"Do you know what triggered this panic attack?" Dr. Wilson asked slowly.

Peter nodded.

"Do you want to try and explain it to me?"

No. It was far too complicated to attempt to communicate without freezing up.

"Okay. If I try and guess what happened, will you tell me yes or no?"

Peter figured that couldn't hurt, though he doubted Dr. Wilson could figure out all the details just by playing twenty questions.

"Did Steve or Carol say something?"

No.

"Did you hear something coming from the TV?"

No.

"Did you see something on the TV?"

Yes.

"Was it something that made you think of bad memories?"

Yes.

"About your parents?"

No.

"About your uncle?"

Yes. Peter knew they'd found the records shortly after discovering his psychogenic mutism wasn't going away anytime soon. Drs. Wilson and van Dyne knew exactly what happened to Uncle Ben and Aunt May. But they should also know by now that Peter didn't even want to think about it—much less talk about it.

"Okay. I'm sorry that happened. Do you remember what show it was on?"

No. Banning certain channels from the common room TV, as Peter suspected Dr. Wilson was attempting to do, wouldn't help. Content that he'd gotten as far as he ever would with that investigation, Dr. Wilson instead went over the techniques he'd already taught Peter for how to manage panic attacks. Peter listened to the lesson just as intently as the first time, but it was two completely separate things to know what to do and be able to exercise that knowledge in the middle of his brain screaming sirens at him. Maybe if Dr. Wilson taught it to him enough times he'd know it well enough to be able to put it to good use.

~0~

Peter had gotten pretty good at doing things one-handed, since his cast rendered his left arm all but useless. The break had been worse than they expected based on the height of his fall, probably because his bones were fragile from an extended period of malnourishment. Today he'd be getting his x-rays to see if they could finally cut the cast off. Peter held his breath while the machine took its pictures, and again while he waited for the doctor to tell him the results.

"Good news, you're all healed up!" she announced. They brought out a circular saw which startled Peter at first, but they assured him it didn't cut anything but cast. The feeling of his skin against the air was alien after being enclosed for so long, but not unwelcome. He bent and flexed his elbow a few times, finding it stiff from being immobilized for so long. His wrist felt much the same. "It'll be stiff for a few days, but unless it doesn't improve on its own you shouldn't need physical therapy," the orthopedist explained. Peter nodded, relieved that he probably wouldn't be adding another layer of therapy to his daily life. He wandered back to the common room to show it off to his friends.

"You got your cast off? That's fantastic," Carol said. "Can I get a high five from your newly freed arm?" She held up her hand, and Peter joyously slapped it. He'd spent way too long immobilized from wrist to elbow that the sense of liberation made him practically giddy. Carol seemed just as excited as he was. "We've got to celebrate," she proclaimed. After staring at him thoughtfully for a few moments, her eyes lit up. Peter eagerly followed her to the cabinets that they rarely explored, which she dug through until she found a brightly colored Nerf football. She tossed it experimentally a few times and apparently deemed it appropriate for whatever she had in mind.

"You do know how to play catch, right?" she asked. Peter nodded. "Great. Let's go grab Bucky and see if he'll join us." They walked down the hallway toward Bucky's room and Carol knocked sharply.

The door swung open. "What's up?"

"Parker and I are going to have some fun. You want in?" she asked with a mischievous glint in her eye.

"Duh." Bucky stepped outside and closed his door behind them, and the trio set off toward a section of the ward that Peter didn't venture to very often. Carol led them to a back staircase and ushered them through. "Is this illegal?" Bucky asked as they made their way down to the main level. He pulled a mask out of his pocket and looped it behind his ears since they were heading towards a more crowded part of the hospital.

"Probably not," she chirped.

"Probably?"

"Relax. If we get caught, Parker will take the fall. Right, Parker?" He froze, suddenly overwhelmed with fear that he'd get in trouble. Would Carol really throw him under the bus like that? She must've seen how nervous he grew, because she immediately corrected herself. "Just kidding. If anyone's going down, it's me. This was my idea after all." They reached the second to last flight of stairs and exited onto the main lobby. Peter had seen it only once before, and it was grand. The massive row of glass front doors opened into a vast atrium filled with doctors, nurses, custodial staff, visitors, and others milling about. There was even a Starbucks, which Carol looked at longingly before setting her sights on a relatively empty area of the floor. Peter looked up at the two-story ceiling in this part of the hospital, feeling freer than he had in weeks now that his arm was cast-free and he wasn't so cooped up. The second floor contained the hospital's café, where faculty and visiting family often stopped for lunch. He could see people milling around behind the railing above. A little kid about six years old looked between the bars and waved down at someone Peter couldn't see.

"Alright, here's the game plan," Carol began. "We're going to play an increasingly intense game of football until we cause a commotion big enough for someone to stop us."

"Um, I'm not cleared for contact sports, and I'm pretty sure you guys aren't either," Bucky said matter-of-factly.

"Relax, when I said football I really just meant catch. No tackling. That means you, Parker." She pointed at him sternly and Peter broke into a sheepish smile. Then, she tossed the foam ball at him and he barely managed to catch it before it smacked into his chest. Bucky took a few steps back and held his hands up for Peter to throw. Luckily, he was right-handed and didn't have to throw with the arm that was desperately out of practice. The action brought back pleasant memories of playing catch with Uncle Ben all those years ago, and more recent recollections of Ned and Michelle.

Bucky tossed the ball to Carol, and they kept up the pattern for a few minutes. Several people in the lobby gave them funny looks, but nobody intervened. Maybe they assumed the three of them participated in therapeutic recreation or something. It must've been obvious that they were patients, between Peter's NG tube, Bucky's beanie and mask, and the ID bracelets on all of their wrists, but for the most part the passersby were content to ignore them.

Bucky ducked out after ten minutes, tired even from such minimal activity, but he found a nearby seat and watched them with smiling eyes. Carol nodded her head for Peter to take a few steps back, and he gladly accepted the challenge. Even with a smaller-than-regulation football made of foam, she somehow threw a perfect spiral every time. Peter wondered where she learned to throw like that. "What do you say we turn this into monkey in the middle?" she asked.

Peter cocked his head at her, wondering who she had in mind for a third player since Bucky was down for the count. She glanced at Bucky, and he looked back skeptically, pulling out his phone and holding it up to record whatever was about to happen. Carol stepped back, and then continued to step back until the other people here could no longer tell that she and Peter were part of the same group. Occasionally, a person or two would walk between them. Peter doubted he could throw that far with any sense of accuracy, but Carol had no such qualms. She lobbed the ball over the heads of an old couple, and it arced beautifully, right into Peter's waiting arms. He alternated between looking at the ball and at Carol, deciding whether or not it was worth the risk of hitting someone before tossing it back. She had to take a few steps, but she caught it no problem.

"Nice throw!" she congratulated. Peter smiled and took another step back. As she readied to throw, she announced, "I want to make one thing clear: nobody tells Rogers what we did today. He would be less than pleased to learn that we do anything besides sit and behave ourselves when he's not around." Peter acknowledged her with a salute.

"You have my solemn word he will never lay eyes on this video," Bucky promised.

"Good. Now Parker, go long!"

She did know he technically wasn't allowed to run, right? As Peter watched the ball soar way beyond what he could feasibly reach, he deduced that she must not have known that. Even if he was in top shape, there was no way he could have made it. They watched helplessly as the ball torpedoed right towards a young man carrying a vase of flowers. Peter held his breath, hoping it wouldn't hit him. It was foam, but he knew it could still hurt, especially if it made contact at that speed. What did happen was even worse. The ball sailed right into the flowers, shattering the vase across the tile floor.

Peter's hand flew to his mouth to stifle a silent gasp as Carol exclaimed, "Shit!" Bucky, still filming, cackled. The man who'd been carrying the vase stepped back, startled, although miraculously he seemed unharmed. He glanced in the direction the football had come from, and his gaze landed on Peter first. Peter cowered as the man strode closer, but an authoritative voice drew his attention.

"Hey! What's all the fuss about?" Everyone in the atrium glanced up, and there was Dr. Lee, leaning against the railing with a half-eaten sandwich in one hand.

"Sorry Dr. Lee!" Carol called, having gathered the football from where it landed. She tossed it between her hands a few times. "We were just celebrating Peter here finally getting his arm back." As she said it, she placed a steady hand on his shoulder.

"Don't make me come down there, you punk!" he said, pointing at her with his free hand. Peter giggled.

"Punk?" Carol turned to Peter. "Parker, did he just call me punk?" Peter nodded, still laughing. "Is it the haircut? He can't possibly know about the _one_ leather jacket that I happen to own," she scoffed. This only made Peter laugh harder. He could even hear Bucky laughing from where he sat. She looked back up towards Dr. Lee and yelled, "You don't have to come down here, sir. We'll bring the party to you. Catch!"

She hurled the ball straight upwards and Peter's stomach climbed into his throat. Everything after happened in slow motion. The ball continued its upward trajectory, and Dr. Lee's face morphed from scolding to startled. As it neared him, he opened his hands to catch it, and the sandwich slipped from his grip and descended towards Carol and Peter. The ball reached the top of its arc just in time for Dr. Lee to grab it, and Carol reached out to catch the sandwich before it could hit the floor and make a mess. Bucky cheered. So did several observers. Dr. Lee stared down at them with a combination of surprise and awe, but he didn't look mad.

"Now that's what I call a celebration," Carol quipped. She offered her prize to Peter. "Victory bite?"

Before he could even think about it, Peter leaned forward and bit a sizeable chunk out of the sandwich she'd presented. Carol's mouth fell open as he straightened up and started chewing. Even Dr. Lee saw it, and he was so taken aback that he dropped the football. It landed right on Carol's head just as Peter swallowed, and he burst out cackling once again. Carol tried to look offended, but it only lasted half a second before she laughed too.

"I might have to take back my promise not to show Steve," Bucky stated. "This is gold."

"Barnes, I swear if you show that footage to Steve you will not need to wait for surgeons to take your arm off," Carol warned, but the threat had no malice behind it. Dr. Lee's instructions to go back to the pediatric residential ward, however, inherently carried more weight, so they obeyed without question. They took the elevator since all three of them were too tired for stairs, and when the doors opened there stood Happy, arms crossed sternly.

"How long have you been standing there waiting for us?" Carol questioned.

"Long enough," he grunted. "Now who's going to start explaining?"

"Carol thought it would be a good idea to launch a foam football at an old man, and karma got her good," Bucky said snidely.

"That is not true," she insisted. "I knew he would catch it. Right, Parker?" Carol nudged him towards Happy, and Peter nodded meekly. Happy frowned at them, waiting for a real explanation. Carol sighed. "We just wanted to do something fun since Peter got his cast off, so we played catch in the lobby."

"You mean you _snuck out_ to play catch in the lobby," Happy corrected.

"Yeah, that."

"Better to ask for forgiveness than permission, right?" Bucky offered.

"Not when asking for permission means asking if a certain activity will jeopardize your health, as it does in your case."

"It's only foam," Carol tried, showing Happy the football.

"Nice try. Go to your rooms." Heads down, they trudged off. Not thirty seconds later, Bucky had texted the video to each of them individually. Peter watched it over and over again, laughing as much as he did when it happened in real time. He couldn't believe he'd actually taken a bite of the sandwich. In the moment, he must have been so full of easy happiness that he forgot to be afraid. Maybe if he could recreate that he might not cower the next time they tried to get him to eat real food.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all should have heard the ridiculous cackle that escaped from my throat when I reread this scene for the first time after writing it. I just...love it so much.


	11. A Gravesen Christmas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think way back when I was posting Gravesen, someone asked if the story would include a hospital Christmas. As you can probably tell from the title of this chapter, this story does. This also might be the fluffiest chapter in the history of fluff, in my personal opinion.

"I heard you had a little adventure yesterday," Dr. van Dyne began. Peter nodded and grinned sheepishly. The memory of it still sat fresh in his mind, repeatedly making him smile out of nowhere. "I'm glad to hear you managed to have some fun, even though it involved breaking some rules." Peter wondered if she knew about the sandwich, if that was an angle she was going to try and work to get him back to eating real food. Evidently, she either didn't know or didn't plan on exploiting it, because the rest of the session proceeded much the same as usual. She released Peter after an hour, and he walked back to his room thinking about how the session would have gone if he could tell her about that moment.

A few days passed and Bucky got discharged, much to his elation. He really wanted to spend Christmas at home, and now it looked like he would have that wish granted. The holiday decorations on the ward had gone up on the first of December, bringing more warmth and color than Peter had ever seen in these hallways. Now, less than a week before the big day, Peter was full of more nerves than holiday cheer. His last two Christmases had both been first Christmases without people, the grief burning at the forefront of his mind preventing him from feeling much cheer. Peter stared at the LEGO Death Star he kept in his room, the one thing that had managed to lift his spirits last year. Building it with Ned had been some of the most fun Peter had in years.

The tree in the common room shaded a medium-sized pile of presents, most of them donated from charities. Peter sifted through them and found one addressed specifically to him…from Carol. Fortunately, she didn't catch him looking at it. He'd found it tucked among the others, so she'd probably hidden it so he wouldn't discover its existence. Now Peter needed to get something for her in return, but he didn't have any money nor a means of going shopping anywhere. Maybe that's why she'd hidden it, so he wouldn't stress about reciprocating. Unable to do much else, Peter decided to make something.

Dr. Wilson had tried to get him to write as a means of communicating, but every time he'd tried his hand froze up just like his throat when he tried to speak. However, sitting alone in his room with art supplies he'd nabbed from the common room cabinets, knowing that the recipient had no idea he was even making anything, Peter found the words actually came. He wrote about how glad he was to have met her, how she'd become as much a sister to him as anyone he'd ever known, and how he hoped this card made up for countless one-sided conversations. Instead of decorating it like an elementary schooler, Peter chose to leave the card mostly plain and hope the content made it a satisfactory present. Besides, his art skills were subpar at best, and Carol had grown used to Steve's caliber of work. He kept it in his room instead of stowing it under the tree to ensure Carol didn't know about it until Christmas morning.

"Hey Parker," she said as they sat in the common room together two days before Christmas. He could tell from the tone of her voice she wanted to discuss something important, so he nodded to indicate he was listening. "Tomorrow is Christmas Eve, and my family's coming here to spend the evening with me." Unconsciously, Peter's shoulders sagged. Honestly, they did that every time he heard the word "family" nowadays. Carol continued, "But I don't want you to be alone on Christmas, so you're welcome to hang out with us if you want to." The offer genuinely surprised and touched him. Knowing Peter didn't have one, Carol had decided to share her family. As much as Peter wanted to at least pretend he belonged to a family again, he didn't want to impose on the Danvers. As far as he knew, this would be the first time Carol saw her mom in person since she was deployed, and Peter didn't want to distract from that reunion. If he was there, Carol would focus on introducing him and attempting to casually explain that he was mute, not rude, instead of enjoying quality time with them. Peter shook his head in answer.

"Are you sure?" she asked. He nodded. "Well, okay then."

Christmas Eve arrived, and Carol's family appeared on the ward just before four in the afternoon. Peter peeked his head out from his room just far enough to observe them. Carol resembled her dad more so than her mom, but the young man with them more than either parent. He must've been her older brother, but Peter had never heard her mention a sibling. She hugged him just as tightly as her parents, so her not talking about him wasn't out of bad blood. Maybe she avoided the subject so Peter wouldn't feel bad about not having siblings. How different would his life have been with a brother or sister? Would the foster care system have separated them? Would Aunt May and Uncle Ben have been willing to take on two kids when his parents died? Would his parents have even died?

Peter let that train of thought get too far. Now he missed Ned and Michelle, the closest thing to siblings he'd ever had, with a fierce desperation. Ned FaceTimed him occasionally to check in, but Peter still couldn't hold up his end of a conversation. While Carol caught up with her family, Peter decided to call Ned.

The boy picked up on the second ring and his smiling face popped up on the screen. "Hey Peter!" he greeted. "Merry Christmas."

Peter smiled in response. Ned's face fell ever so slightly when he realized Peter still hadn't found his voice. At this point, Peter wasn't sure it would ever come back, but just seeing Ned brought a warm and fuzzy feeling to his chest.

"Is the hospital all decorated and stuff?" he asked eagerly. Peter nodded and stood up to offer Ned a virtual tour. He flipped the camera and showed off the garlands strewn up and down the walls of the corridor and the central nursing station whose base was now covered in paper cutouts of reindeer, snowmen, and candy canes. Nurse Heimdall caught him walking around pointing his phone's camera at everything and offered him a warm smile. Peter didn't know where Carol and her family ended up, so he balked at the idea of walking into the common room.

"Is there a tree?" Ned asked. Peter flipped the camera back to his face and nodded. "Show me!" With a gulp, Peter set off for the common room and peeked inside. Sure enough, the four Danvers were seated on the sofas. Carol and her brother seemed to be locked in a war, alternating whose foot sat on top of the other's on the ottoman in front of them. Peter feared one of them might break an ankle with how strongly they were competing. Finally, they broke off the fight with a laugh.

"What are you waiting for?" came Ned's voice, and only then did Peter realize he'd had the camera facing a blank wall for the past minute or two. He opened the door slowly and hoped Carol didn't make a production of his entrance.

"What's up, Parker?" she asked as he stood in the doorway. "Guys, this is my neighbor, Peter Parker."

"Hi Peter," Carol's mom said warmly. He gave a slight wave with his free hand and tried not to let himself completely collapse with self-consciousness.

"Who's this?" Ned asked.

"Oh, are you on a call?" Carol asked. "Sorry. Can I say hi?" Peter nodded. She waved at the camera and said, "Hello Peter's friend. I'm Carol."

"Ned," he replied. "I'm Peter's former foster brother."

"That's cool. I'll bet he makes a great brother." Peter blushed. He'd just wanted to show Ned the tree and get out, but now he was trapped in here. Hopefully this conversation wouldn't last too long and he could let Carol be with her family.

"Eh, he's alright," Ned said cheekily.

"He's got to be better than Steve." That comment confused Peter until he saw Carol's brother punch her in the bicep for it. Apparently Steve was her brother's name too. Peter found it kind of funny that her best friend at Gravesen had the same name as her big brother.

"You're one to talk," Steve countered.

"Shut up." Peter used their distraction to point Ned towards the tree and then started to back away. "You're leaving so soon?" Carol questioned.

He nodded and turned tail. Just before he closed the door behind him, he heard Carol's mom ask, "Is he alright?" and wondered how she answered that question. Frankly, he wasn't sure what the answer was.

~0~

The Danvers stayed until well after curfew, so Peter went to sleep. After seeing Ned, watching Carol interact with her parents and brother, and remembering past Christmases that weren't so terrible, all the pent-up emotions inside of him exploded when the nurse brought his feed for the night. Sharon hadn't even connected the tubing before panic washed over his brain like a tsunami and a band made of steel clenched around his chest. Her efforts to calm him down proved futile. After having so many of them, Peter could recognize when a panic attack was treatable and when it would inevitably hold him in its clutches for however long it could. This one definitely wouldn't let go anytime soon.

Even the meds Nurse Sharon administered failed to bring the calming effects they usually did. His vision swam, the room in front of him blurring in and out of focus, interposed with images of the grocery store and May's hospital room. Peter vaguely wondered if this is what it felt like to have uncontrollable asthma attacks like Steve. Only instead of dogs or dust that triggered them, Peter only needed to see things he would never have again.

Just when he resigned himself to feel like this forever he finally got a hold of his breathing and started following Sharon's instructions. As quickly as it came on, that's how slowly it subsided. "You're okay," Sharon soothed. _Yeah, right_ , Peter wanted to say. The only reason this happened was because he was so, so far from okay.

All he wanted for Christmas was to be okay again.

~0~

Carol woke him up. Well, more accurately, Carol made him get out of bed. Peter hadn't slept much of the night, too shaken by the panic attack and the fact that this was his _second Christmas without any family_. How many thirteen-year-olds could say that? "Parker, up and at 'em!" she called, knocking harshly on his door. "It's Christmas!"

Peter rolled his eyes at her juvenile excitement. He knew she was just putting on a show for him, and he appreciated it, but it was a little over-the-top. Regardless, he did get up and get dressed, meeting her outside his door. "It's about time," she said exasperatedly. "I thought you'd keep me waiting until New Year's." She grabbed his hand and started pulling him towards the common room, but before they could get far Peter remembered the card he'd made for her. He planted his feet and tugged in the opposite direction, pointing back at his doorway.

"Forget something?" she asked. He nodded, and she let go of his hand. Peter scampered back to the room, snatched up the card, and returned with it behind his back. Together, they marched into the common room and found that Santa (more likely a group of volunteers) had added more presents to the pile and hung a few stockings from temporary hooks on the wall. All the grief in Peter's heart nudged over just far enough to let in some joy. He sat down behind one of the boxes and slid the card under it so Carol wouldn't see yet.

"There's no way we're opening all of these," she announced. "Some of them should go back into storage for any kids that might show up in the next few days, or distributed to other wards. I know for a fact that the PICU doesn't have its own tree, so we should ask that these get delivered there."

Peter nodded in agreement and watched Carol sift through the boxes intently, as if searching for one in particular. A cry of triumph and she emerged with a perfectly cube-shaped box wrapped in gold paper, about the size of a coffee mug. "This one caught my eye a few days ago, and I'm wondering what the hell it is. Do you have any guesses?" she asked. Peter only shrugged. "I guess we'll have to find out." Carol brought the box closer so Peter could see and tore at the wrapping paper, revealing an iridescent blue cube. She inspected it closely, looking for a lid, button, or anything that would clue them in as to what the object was, but she found nothing. "You try," she prompted, handing it off to Peter. He looked at every face, edge, and corner, but as far as he could tell it was just a fancy-looking cube. Peter explained his guess as best he could by placing the object on the corner of the torn-up wrapping paper.

"You think it's just a paperweight?" Carol asked. He nodded. She was pretty darn good at guessing what he meant. "I was that excited over a paperweight? I thought it looked so cool, the perfectly square box in the gold wrapping paper, and I open it to find a glorified rock?" Peter smiled and shrugged. He picked out one small box from under the tree and opened it to find a necklace shaped like an eye.

"That looks pretty cool, though I'm guessing by the look on your face it's not your style," Carol commented. Peter offered it to her, but she declined. "Not mine either. It looks like something a wizard would wear." She crawled back to the tree and pulled out another box, one Peter recognized as her present to him. He tried to disguise the fact that he already knew it was there, widening his eyes when she brought it close enough for him to read the nametag. Letting her drink in the euphoria of having surprised him for a few moments, Peter reached under the big box beside him and pulled out the card.

"Peter Parker, you got something for me?" she said, sounding genuinely surprised and thrilled. He nodded with a grin. She took the card gently and stared at it as if it were just as mystifying as the glowy blue cube. "How about we open them at the same time?" As she opened the envelope, Peter picked at the paper on his box, but not before he shook it to try and guess its contents. He would recognize that rattle anywhere.

"Whoa, there's a lot of words here," Carol said once she pulled the card out. Peter finished with the wrapping paper and found exactly what he'd guessed: LEGOs. But it wasn't any set he knew of, just a collection of minifigure parts for characters he didn't recognize. Carol noticed his confusion and grinned; apparently she'd wanted this gift to be difficult to figure out. "How about you try and put those together while I read through this?"

Peter nodded, eager for the challenge of deciphering this little puzzle. He dumped out the pieces and surveyed them, looking for anything unique enough to let him know what the heck this was. One of the torsos caught his eye because it was broken; the left arm was missing. Peter plucked it out of the pile and held it out to Carol with a confused quirk of his eyebrows.

"It's not broken," she said cryptically. Peter turned back to the pile and separated out the only pieces that weren't for minifigures: the smallest LEGO wheels available, the clip that held their axel and allowed them to roll, a cylinder, and one of those little megaphone-shaped pieces. He put them together in the first configuration to come to mind and ended up with something resembling a tank on wheels.

No way.

A missing left arm? A tank on wheels? He knew people who fit those descriptions, or at least would within the next few months. Peter counted the heads, four, and looked at all the hairstyles, finding they all resembled those of him and his friends here. He looked at the rest of the torsos and sure enough, one of them was white with a grey Nine Inch Nails logo on it. Carol wore that shirt at least once a week. He raced to assemble them as quickly as possible and proudly presented the results to Carol. "I had a bet with my brother on how quickly you'd figure it out." She glanced at her phone to check the time. "I won. Do you like it?"

Peter thought he might start crying, but instead he nodded enthusiastically and extended his arms for a hug which Carol gladly reciprocated. "Did you write this note yourself?" she whispered in his ear before they released each other. This time, instead of nodding, he gave a thumbs-up. "I don't think anyone's ever done anything so meaningful for me. Thank you."

"You're welcome," was right there at the front of his brain. So was, "Everything I said in there is true," and, "Words could never be enough, but they're all I had." But none of those would transform into speech. Still, Peter could tell by the way Carol looked back at him that he didn't need to say anything for her to know how he felt. He'd written it all down, after all.

For his second Christmas without any family, it was actually a fantastic Christmas. And if Peter spent the rest of the day pitting LEGO Carol, Bucky, Steve, and himself against Emperor Palpatine from his Death Star set in a battle to save the galaxy like a five-year-old boy with his action figures, well…nobody needed to know.

~0~

"You know, you remind me of someone," Carol stated, mindlessly throwing and catching the blue cubic paperweight that she'd insisted was a stupid gift but had kept anyway. Bucky had been here for a week and a half around New Year's but had since been discharged until his next round, so it was just the two of them again. Peter curled up in the corner of one couch while Carol stretched out horizontally across another. Every once in a while, she nearly missed catching the cube and he feared one of the corners would take out her eye. But even if he told her to stop or at least sit up, he knew she wouldn't. So he just sat there silently observing like he always did.

"You remind me of that little robot guy from Star Wars," she continued. Peter perked up at the mention of his favorite movies. "The blue and white one who's always hanging out with the golden guy. He's loyal, and everybody loves him even though he doesn't talk. Although I guess the beeping counts as talking since everyone can understand him, but you get the point. Man, what's his name? I know it's a bunch of letters and numbers like all the robots but I can't remember." She tossed the cube a little higher than before, spinning it with a flick of her wrist. It flew in a slight arc instead of straight up and down and almost crashed into her chest. "It's killing me," she said, tapping the cube against her forehead as if to jog her memory. "MP3? No, that's definitely not it. I think it starts with an R…RT? That's not it either.

"R2D2."

"What?!" Carol shot up, the cube skittering to the floor. She glanced around the room frantically, looking for the source of the voice. When she failed to find a possible alternative, her eyes settled on Peter. "Did you…did you just…say that?"

Eyes wide, Peter nodded. He was just as shocked as Carol, frankly. A part of him had been convinced he'd never regain the ability to speak, and he'd begun to accept that. Something must have loosened the mental knot that closed off his speech, but he didn't know what. Vaguely, he remembered his aunt and uncle mentioning that he hadn't started talking until he was three years old. His parents had been terrified that he was born deaf or mute and had taken him to countless doctors to figure out what was wrong. And then he just started talking one day. No one understood why. The best explanation they got was that some exceptionally bright children were late talkers and maybe Peter fit into this genius category. But that same reason couldn't possibly apply to his psychogenic mutism.

Carol had asked him plenty of questions in his time here. Most of them were yes or no questions that he could answer, but some were more complicated ones. More often than not, she just expected him to listen. Talking to someone who wouldn't respond didn't seem to bother her. But this particular question was simple and related to his favorite thing in the world, possibly the only thing that didn't carry tainted memories. Before he could even register that he was actually _talking_ , the name slipped out of his mouth in a muted whisper. Two months of disuse really did a number on one's vocal cords.

"Are you serious? That was you?" Carol was obviously thrown, yet also elated, by his sudden opening up. Her eyes brightened and a half shocked, half overjoyed smile appeared on her face. Peter nodded again. "Oh my god. You—you _answered_. This is insane." He couldn't help but mirror her excitement in his own face. His first words had been his own name, Peter Parker, and his second first words had been another name, the name of one of his favorite characters.

"Could you…do you think you could do it again?" she asked. Peter shrugged. She started muttering to herself before she looked back up at him, "Okay, he answered my question about some Star Wars character, maybe if I ask another…Parker, I mentioned the golden guy he's always hanging out with, what's that one's name?"

The first time he'd answered reflexively, without even consciously thinking about it. Now she was asking him face-to-face and expecting a verbal answer. Now that the pressure was on, he wasn't sure he could deliver. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, Peter focused on the goal: teaching his confused friend about Star Wars. He opened his eyes and looked straight at Carol. "C3PO."

"Oh my god. Oh my god. I didn't believe you the first time. I legit thought I was hearing voices, but…oh my god. Is this…is this the beginning of something bigger? You could talk before, right?"

Peter nodded.

"Do you think you'll get back to speaking freely like that?"

He shrugged. This was just as new to him as it was to Carol, and he had no idea if he'd be able to produce more than one word at a time. Hopefully, he'd be able to do that. Peter wanted to communicate, but for two months now he'd been psychologically incapable. Dr. Wilson had told him it was probably because of the stress of being uprooted from his third family and dropped into an environment so similar to where he'd lost his aunt. Once he found security, he'd find his voice again, the psychiatrist had surmised. That must be it. Here, in this common room where he enjoyed time with his friends, with just him and Carol who treated him like a little brother, he felt safe again.

"It's you," Peter mumbled.

"What? What's me?" Carol asked.

Peter cleared his throat. "Talking."

"What do you mean?"

"Safe," Peter said with a shrug, his throat already hurting from the activity after resting for so long.

"I make you feel safe enough to talk?" she guessed. He nodded, and Carol's eyes glistened with pride. "Wow. I'm so happy to hear that, and in your voice nonetheless! You know, I used to picture your voice in my head, and it's not all that different than what you actually sound like. Although I suppose you're a little froggier right now than your true normal voice."

Peter smiled. As much as he was glad to have rediscovered his ability to talk, he did love listening to Carol ramble. Hopefully she would still do it even if she knew he could contribute to the conversation.

"Do you think you'll start talking to Dr. Wilson and Dr. van Dyne too?" she asked, suddenly hesitant. Peter shrugged. The fact of the matter was he remained wary. For the past few weeks, they'd focused on building rapport to get him comfortable enough to talk to them, postponing discussion of his inability to eat. Verbalizing his experiences with the grocery store and May's illness, as the Falcon no doubt expected of him at some point, would bring up so many emotions that Peter had spent a long time burying. If he dug them up, there was no telling when the anguish would stop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea if you can actually order personalized LEGO minifigures, but the idea popped into my head and it was so frickin cute that I didn't care whether or not it was realistic. Also, Carol Danvers does canonically have a brother named Steve in the movies. I didn't make that up just to make things awkward for Steve Rogers. We see him a few times in the flashback/memory scenes and he's credited as "Steve Danvers." Who knew?


	12. She Called Me Parker

Word spread around the ward that Peter had talked, and he expected that to be the first thing Dr. Wilson brought up in their next session. However, the psychiatrist evidently had more important things to discuss. Namely, the bright green bird with blue and red feathered wings sitting innocently on a perch behind him. Peter stared at it, waiting for it to fly around the office or make a noise or something, but it just stared right back at him.

"This is Redwing," Dr. Wilson introduced. Peter smiled and nodded. "He's an eclectus parrot."

The bird stepped around on its perch, still eyeing Peter with a suspicious glint in its eye. It opened its beak and squawked out a word he never expected to hear from a bird, "Psych!"

Dr. Wilson rolled his eyes and shook his head despondently. "That's the only word he'll say. I think he's picked it up from listening to my pager all day."

"Cool," Peter said quietly. He hadn't expected his revelation with Carol to carry over, but evidently it had. Maybe Redwing's antics helped relax him enough to talk. Dr. Wilson's eyes widened at the sound of Peter's voice, but he didn't immediately pounce on it like Peter feared he might.

"Psych!" the bird repeated.

"Yes, you're in the right department," Dr. Wilson assured him. "Now pipe down so I can talk to Peter."

Peter didn't want to talk to Dr. Wilson about their usual subjects. He would much rather discuss this bird for the next hour. It was far more interesting. "R2D2 is a pretty cool first word to have," he said. "Is he your favorite character?"

Peter shook his head and corrected, "C3PO."

"I'm partial to Han Solo myself, but I see where you're coming from."

Dr. Wilson knew about Star Wars? Peter had no idea. Could he possibly redirect every future conversation so they could talk about that instead of Peter's problems? As awesome as that would be, Peter knew it would never happen. Dr. Wilson had a job to do in fixing Peter, and he was tenacious enough not to quit until he'd accomplished it.

"What is it you like about him?" the psychiatrist asked. That was a much more complicated answer than just stating a name. Peter kept his mouth shut and shrugged. "That's okay. I couldn't just pick one thing either. There's just so much that makes him great. I get that you're only up for short answers, and that's okay. I have a very important question to ask that you will be able to answer in just a word or two, can you do that for me?"

"Yes," Peter squeaked.

"Is there any food that you will eat, something that won't cause a panic attack?"

"Psych!" Redwing contributed. They'd given up on trying to bring him solid food since he completely lost it at the mere sight every time they tried, even things that he normally could tolerate. But maybe if he got to dictate what they gave him and when, it wouldn't catch him off guard and send him spiraling. Peter thought that with that amount of control returned to him he might be able to do it.

"I—I can try toast," he whispered.

"Anything on it?"

Peter shook his head vigorously.

"Okay," Dr. Wilson relented. Content that he'd gotten enough out of Peter for one session, he dismissed him, but not after offering him a chance to pet Redwing. The bird's feathers were nothing like the fur of the therapy dogs that came here, but he leaned into Peter's touch like he enjoyed the attention. Later that day, they brought him toast and he ate both slices without a hint of terror. When Happy saw his empty plate, he gazed at Peter in awe.

"Hungry, were you?" he asked. Peter smiled and nodded. In that moment he thought maybe—just maybe—things would be okay.

~0~

Peter dared to do something he hadn't done before: FaceTime Ned. The other boy usually called him and talked about his week while Peter listened silently. But now that he knew he could voice his thoughts to some degree, he thought he just might be able to reciprocate. Ned picked up within five seconds and Peter grinned the instant he saw his face.

"Hey Peter!" Ned greeted with all his usual enthusiasm.

"Hi," Peter squeaked back.

Ned's eyes grew so wide Peter worried they would pop right off his face. "Holy shit. Am I hallucinating? Was that some sort of glitch?"

"No."

"Are you serious? That's you talking to me right now?"

"No, I'm a clone," Peter said sarcastically.

"He makes jokes too? Who are you and what have you done with the real Peter?"

"Nothing. Just me."

"Peter, you have no idea how long I've waited to hear your voice. This—this might be the best thing that's ever happened to me."

"You got adopted," Peter reminded him.

"Yeah, and that's great and all, but this? This is beyond awesome. What happened?"

"Carol forgot R2D2's name. I reminded her."

"Your first word after not talking for months was R2D2?"

"Yeah."

"Dude, that's awesome."

"I guess."

"How are things going? You talking again must be a huge step in the right direction, huh?"

"I guess."

"Do you feel any better?"

"I dunno. How're you?"

"I'm pretty good. School isn't too hard, but we get no snow days out here. None."

"That sucks."

"It barely even feels like winter. It's still so warm. I'm afraid of summer."

"You'll live."

"No, I'm actually scared I'm going to melt into the sidewalk."

Peter laughed, the kind that warmed him deep inside from toe to top. Ned chuckled, but it soon turned into a fit comparable to Peter's. "Man, I am so happy to be able to talk to you," Ned reiterated.

"Me too."

~0~

Ever so gradually, they expanded the list of things he got to eat. It still didn't include anything Peter considered unsafe—he shut Dr. van Dyne down whenever she so much as suggested something he knew wouldn't sit well—but it was enough that they could remove his NG-tube. Peter hadn't been this happy in ages. He could look in the mirror and see just his face, no tape or tubes obscuring it. The smile didn't leave his face for days afterwards.

Of course, he still had a long way to go. He still couldn't speak freely around any of the adults here, still anxious enough that he choked up in the middle of sentences and fell silent. But when it came to chatting with Carol, Steve, Bucky, and new arrivals Natasha and Thor he could manage almost normally. Which is why he was taken completely by surprise when he walked into Dr. Wilson's office and found Carol already seated on the couch, opposite Peter's usual spot.

"Good morning," Dr. Wilson greeted.

"Morning," Peter replied hesitantly. Was he early, and Carol had a session that hadn't finished up yet? She didn't make any move to leave, which confused him even more.

"Carol's going to sit in with us today, is that okay?" Dr. Wilson asked.

Peter nodded unsurely. He glanced behind the desk for Redwing's usual perch, but the bird was nowhere to be found. "Where's Redwing?"

"I couldn't get any work done with him constantly screaming, 'Psych!' in my ear, so I let a friend of mind adopt him."

"Okay." Slowly, he sat down, eyeing Carol cautiously. She quirked a smile at him like everything was normal, but he still didn't understand _anything_ about whatever was going on here.

"Peter, if we're going to progress any farther with your recovery, we need to understand the root of the problem," Dr. Wilson explained. Peter knew he wasn't going to like where this was going. "Your records can only tell us so much. I need to know what you saw and what you felt so I can help you work through those feelings."

"I don't want to," he insisted.

"I know you don't, but I promise it'll be worth it in the end. Once you've said it, you won't have to carry it all by yourself anymore."

"I—I don't know if I can."

"That's why Carol's here. I want you to explain it to her, not to me. I'm just here to listen and support you both."

"Really?" Somehow it felt different to talk about it with her than with the psychiatrist. It would feel more like a conversation and less like an interrogation.

"Yes. Whenever you're ready, I want you to talk about what made you stop eating."

He genuinely didn't think he could do it, after having forcefully swallowed down the memories over and over again for the past two years. But Peter met Carol's eye, and he saw there nothing but unbridled support. Dr. Wilson finally understood him well enough to know that he needed this bridge, someone he felt more comfortable with, to broach such a difficult subject. The next thing Peter knew, it all came spilling out, accompanied by heaving sobs that left him struggling for air and scrambling to find the next words. By the end of it, he was curled up practically in Carol's lap, trembling and weeping yet feeling the knot that had sat in the middle of his chest for ages and ages finally loosen its hold on his heart. Carol ran her fingers calmingly through his hair, in a manner he vaguely remembered his dad using when Peter was a little kid.

"You did so well, Peter," Dr. Wilson encouraged. "I'm so proud of you."

"Are we done?" he asked, sniffling.

"Yes. We're done for today, if you want to be. I know that was a lot, but I really hope it helped.

"Yeah, it—I think it did," he hiccupped.

"I'm so glad."

"Can I go lie down now?"

"Of course."

Peter scurried back to his room and closed the door, lying down on his bed to stare at the ceiling. That had been the hardest thing he'd ever done in his life. He saw the way Carol's eyes darkened as he proceeded through the story, hated that she now knew this horrible side of him. But afterwards, her eyes shone with nothing but love for him, Dr. Wilson's with a combination of pride and relief. As difficult as it was, Peter was glad he did it.

~0~

A few days after that, Peter was on his way to another session with Dr. Wilson when he paused outside the door because he heard a familiar voice. Mr. Harrington. "I have a foster parent lined up for whenever he's ready to leave the hospital," he stated.

"That's great," Dr. Wilson replied.

"Do you have an estimate on when he'll be ready so I can tell Mr. Westcott?"

"No, I don't. But I'm pretty comfortable saying it won't be for weeks, maybe months. Peter is just beginning to come back to himself, and the last thing I want to do is introduce any drastic life changes that could put him off course. He has stability here, and he's not ready for that to be taken away."

"Of course. I completely understand. I just wanted you to know that he will have somewhere to go when he's released."

"Thank you. I'm actually due to see him in a few minutes," Dr. Wilson explained. Peter seized the opportunity to knock on the door. "That'll be him. Come in!" Peter stepped through the door and waved to Mr. Harrington.

"Hey Peter," he greeted. "I was just telling Dr. Wilson that I found a new foster home for you for when you're ready to leave."

"Okay," Peter said. He didn't love the idea of being relocated yet again, but he supposed that was a reality he'd have to get used to as a kid in the foster care system. His life with the Jones was only a memory now, somewhere he could never go back to. They probably already had new kids to replace him and Ned now that they were both gone. Peter clung to what Dr. Wilson had said, that he wouldn't be leaving here for quite a while. He'd rather stay here with friends and workers that he knew than go off to another stranger's home.

Mr. Harrington left, and Peter sat down with Dr. Wilson to start his first day of exposure therapy. They were tackling his phobia from that horrible day at the grocery store. Peter was…not excited, to say the least. Dr. Wilson started small, with photographs. Peter knew the intangibility wouldn't matter, having had a massive panic attack at a television advertisement not long ago, but that still didn't stop the jolt of adrenaline that ran through him. Dr. Wilson coached him through the panic attack, but he refused to take away the stimulus. They waited it out, until many minutes later Peter's breath returned to his chest and the image remained in front of him.

They proceeded much like that for days, gradually working their way closer and closer to the real thing until Dr. Wilson could leave an unopened bag of chips on his desk and Peter could walk into his office and barely bat an eye. Ever so slowly he grew to accept more variety in his diet, though he was fairly certain beef would remain off the table for the rest of his life. Dr. van Dyne and Dr. Wilson assured him that was perfectly okay. He put on a bit more weight, but still not nearly enough to satisfy his doctors. All things considered, he was doing great.

And then Carol got sick. _Really_ sick.

It came out of nowhere. The ward had just welcomed its newest resident, a brain cancer patient named Peter Quill. After a brief discussion, they both agreed to go by their last names to avoid confusion. Peter was secretly overjoyed. Carol called almost all of them by their last names, and every time he heard her say it his heart swelled remembering that, although the rest of them were no longer here, he was a Parker at heart. Having everyone call him that just ensured he felt that love even more often.

However, he felt it more than ever before when Carol whispered with breath she didn't have to spare, "Parker, you're going to be okay." He only shook his head, unable to speak with the grief already constricting his throat. "I know it doesn't feel like it right now, but I _promise_ you you'll make it through this." Carol had never broken a promise to him. Peter had faith that even in death she'd remain true to her word. Still, he knew that with her departure, much like his parents', Uncle Ben's, and Aunt May's, she would take a piece of Peter with her. So, before he said goodbye, he took her cold hand in his and pressed into her palm the minifigure of himself she'd gifted him last Christmas. Carol curled blue-tipped fingers around the little piece of plastic and nodded. Their gazes locked for a fraction of a second, exchanging in that single instant years' worth of conversation.

He wasn't with her when it happened. Only her mother and brother were awarded that terrible privilege. Peter spent that last day of February with LEGO Carol lying between his hand and his chest, right over his heart and next to the locket containing the photos of both his families. He feared he'd lose his voice again, or relapse when it came to his eating habits, but he didn't. Dr. Wilson must have expected the same thing, because he seemed surprised when Peter responded during their session.

"Does this mean she didn't mean as much to me?" he asked desperately. Why didn't his grief for her send him spiraling as badly as that he carried for his other loved ones? Had the course of his life just completely desensitized him to loss?

"No, Peter," Dr. Wilson assured.

"Parker," he corrected before the psychiatrist could continue. Quill wasn't here, so there was no chance of a mix-up, but he liked the nickname so much he wanted everyone to use it. Plus, it reminded him of Carol. "She, uh…she called me Parker."

"This doesn't mean she meant any less to you. It only means you've found healthier coping mechanisms."

"That's good, right?"

"Yes. That's very good." They spent the rest of the hour discussing different ways to manage grief. Peter left Dr. Wilson's office that day knowing that, with some help, he could make sure Carol's promise rang true. He would be okay.

The arrival of Tony Stark felt like a sign from above. He was everything Peter needed in a friend; warm, witty, and stalwart in the face of frightening circumstances. Peter wanted nothing more than for this new kid to see him as someone worth spending time with. Which is why, when Tony asked him about his earlier days at Gravesen, he started making things up on the fly to make his time here seem more interesting. Peter never kept his own food log and lied about it, and he certainly never cheated the system by hiding food. He started to run out of ideas and thought Tony would bust him for sure when he mentioned the possibility of them planting a camera, but shockingly Tony believed his every word. Peter felt so bad about lying that he nearly confessed the truth right then and there, but the topic of conversation quickly moved on, and soon it became obvious that his little fib didn't matter in the grand scheme of things. All that mattered was continuing the fight, and keeping the memories of those who had lost alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe we're already at the end of this much-anticipated prequel. Three chapters every week really makes a story fly by fast. Has it lived up to your expectations? The hype for Clint's prequel isn't nearly as high, but I can promise it will have Carol content almost as fluffy as this story's, along with some intense medical realism. Hope to see you there! Only two more prequels until After Gravesen!


End file.
